


Wanted: Dead

by Sivvus



Series: Beyond the Duststorm [1]
Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, The Immortals - Tamora Pierce, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: 1800s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Western, Asian-American Character, Betrayal, Bounty Hunters, Class Differences, Complete, Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Fantasy, Historical, Love/Hate, Magic, Matricide, Past Relationship(s), Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Poison, Secrets, Wealth, railway, tycoon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 22:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2709008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sivvus/pseuds/Sivvus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 1 of the 'Beyond the Duststorm' series: A Tortall/Immortals AU set in a gift-blessed American West, before the Civil War. </p><p>Wanted criminal Numair Salmalin shadows the Cart Hak Rail Company as it moves through the West. He finds Daine, a dangerous outlaw wanted for the murder of the twelve bandits who killed her family. Daine is the only person who can expose the corrupt Cart Hak Chairman and clear Numair's name, but her help comes at a heavy price. D/N, AU, fluff, Western Magic/Fantasy. Dark content warning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vicious Raindrops

**Author's Note:**

> This has become another incredibly long story, so I've split it into sections. This is the first; the second is called 'Spun Sugar': http://archiveofourown.org/works/2709449/chapters/6064088

The man strolled through the desert, leading his horse with an absentmindedness that made him repeatedly drop the long reign into the swirling dust eddies. The horse, long used to her master's thoughtful thoughtlessness, followed him obediently even when she was dragging her own tether behind her. There was nowhere else to go, in any case. The lush green fields of her foal-hood were far away, so many hundreds of miles to the east that they might have been across a great ocean.

The horse might have missed their carefully cultivated luxury, but in truth she knew her life was an easy one. The man did not like to ride, and apart from the water skins that were strung across her back and the small saddlebag of supplies the horse carried very little. She ambled along at his strong, steady pace, and only occasionally nipped at his horsetail of dark hair to remind him to stop and sleep.

She was about to do just that, aiming carefully for the faded leather tie that drew the hair back from his sunburned neck, when they both smelled the distant bitterness of smoke on the breeze. The man didn't stop, but he drew himself up a little straighter and walked with a little more speed.

"I know it's getting dark," he said, glancing back, "But by my estimation the wind can only carry scent particles a few miles. We should find the homestead before the moon rises," He turned his face away again, brushing dust from the sleeves of his long coat as he added in a low voice, "And I think it's what we've been looking for."

The horse tossed her head and watched the flies scatter away from her knotted mane. She hadn't been looking for anything. She hadn't been traipsing from hotels to taverns to brothels to tent cities asking questions. Privately, she thought that she was more sensible than that. The man's questions had chased them from far too many towns. The horse's feet were sore from cantering over the sharp stones of the desert away from mobs.

Still, she looked ahead with bright curiosity. The smoke was visible now, a distant grey plume that scattered in the breeze like feathers. Not a large fire, and there was only one of it. Not enough humans to chase them from the warm with rifles and pitchforks, at least. The horse whickered softly and nudged the human in the small of his bony back, making him speed up. He looked back and smiled, patting her on the nose with detached affection before looking away again.

Despite the man's guess it was long after dark before they finally found the homestead, and that was pure chance. The man had never been good at following trails, and whoever lived in the homestead barely seemed to leave any. Or rather, the small valley that the smoke poured from had so many trails in it that it was impossible to tell which were coming and which were going, let alone which should be followed. The valley floor was cool and shaded after the open dust of the desert, and a tiny stream cut through the cracking rocks to drain into invisible caves beneath the ground.

The wind shrieked through the towering rocks around them, dragging at the leaves of the hardy plants that grew along the waterline. It was impossible to hear anything. The man shook his head in frustration a few times, eventually pulling tufts of wadding from a tear in the saddle and blocking his ears with them. Almost as an afterthought, he tied a bandana around the horse's ears too, and they continued in a suddenly-silent world.

The towering rocks grew denser, forming shelves and odd tunnels, and it started to grow dark. They would walk in one direction only to find that the rocks had turned them about, and the smoke was suddenly behind them. They would start again, and come out of another passageway in the same place they'd started from.

The rocks grew so dense that even the wind couldn't reach them. The man muttered to himself, tugging at his nose thoughtfully and pulling the cotton from his ears. He lit a dry branch on fire with his tinder box, blowing out the smoking wood almost as soon as it caught. He used the charcoal to mark the tunnels that they had taken, squinting to see his own marks in the darkness.

They were about to give up when they turned yet another corner and something caught the horse's eye. It was faded amber, like a dimming gaslight. She shook her head, wondering if she was dreaming-awake. There were no gaslights this far from the cities. But she planted her feet in the ground and refused to move, staring around wide-eyed for the source of the light.

There! A small, almost invisible crack between two stones. They had walked past it. The horse could see that light glowed through it from this angle, but from where the human was standing it must be hidden. She nipped at him when he tried to drag her onwards, and flicked her ears towards the light.

"Come on, horse." He muttered, dragging one hand through his hair in frustration and then lowering it to yank at the reign with both hands. "Don't do this. If we can't find it in another hour then we'll stop, I promise. Maybe two hours. But we will stop."

The pony rolled her eyes and let him drag her. For a moment she petulantly thought about letting him get completely lost in this labyrinth, and then some softer part in her nature scolded her. With all the affection she had for her irritating, absentminded master, she caught his shoulder firmly between her teeth and hauled him physically around to where she had been standing. He yelped and grabbed at her head, but she shook him with a muffled whinny.

"What the hell are you…?" He started, and then his eyes widened and he hung limply from her grip. "There's a… a light! A light, horse! Look! We've found it!"

The horse snorted loudly and dropped him, hearing him thud to the ground with some satisfaction. Perhaps she was petty. She hoped he knew that she only did it because she cared.

They were about to squeeze through the gap, peering blearily into the darkness, when a strange sound made them both freeze. It wasn't that they didn't recognise the sharp, clicking promise. It was a noise they were all-too familiar with. Both the horse and its master took an instinctive step back, poised to run away, as the barrel of a shotgun emerged from the passage and shone in the grey moonlight.

The hands holding the gun were small but held the gun with practiced ease. That was all they could see of the girl before she spoke. "You both had best be heading back where you came from. I don't ask twice." She raised the gun slightly, aiming at the man's heart, and her voice took on an edge. "And I don't miss, either."

"I'm not here to hurt you." The man said quickly. His voice had none of the tobacco-stroked coarseness of the locals, and the horse had known his cultured accent to lower more raised guns than she'd eaten sugar lumps. The girl's aim didn't waver for a second.

"That so?" She asked lazily, "Why are you here, then? Seein' as how it's not exactly a swarmin'trade route, I mean."

"I was looking for you." He said simply, spreading his hands wide to show they were empty. There was an intake of breath, and this time the gun did move – not shaking or wavering, but moving to point at the man's head.

"Choose your next words carefully," the girl's voice was rough. "For if I hear you say 'bounty', it'll be the last thing you ever say."

"I couldn't hunt you if I wanted to. There's a price on my head, too." The man shrugged, and even faced with the gun his words were gentle. The horse blinked. Was the man's admission supposed to be reassuring? But for some reason they made the girl relax; her harsh breathing faded, and she took a step forward. The fading moonlight finally caught her face, and they could see that she was young, far younger than her calloused words had made her sound. She still held the gun up as she asked the question, her eyes far more fearful than her brisk words.

"You? What did _you_ do?"

"I made a powerful man into an enemy." It was almost as if they were baiting each other, waiting to see how the other one would react to their words. The girl blinked, and then lowered the gun and shrugged. The corner of her mouth quirked up, and then she forced it into seriousness.

"You know what I did, I reckon, if you're lookin' for me." She laughed shortly, humourlessly. "And if you know that, then I don't need a gun to make you act proper, do I?"

"No ma'am." He nodded sardonically, matching her grim humour. She smiled and holstered the shotgun across her back with a speed that made the horse whicker in alarm. The man's own voice was sincere when he added, "I don't need to be threatened. I'm not a threat to you."

"Well, we'll see about that, won't we?" She muttered, and raised a hand to the horse in greeting.

"She bites," The man said quickly. The girl rolled her eyes at him and let the horse nibble at her palm.

"I _know_ that. Your shirt has tooth marks bleeding through the shoulder. I didn't think you'd found a particularly vicious raindrop." She turned back to the horse and chucked her under the chin, frowning as she untied the bandana. "What's this?"

"It was for the wind." He explained, and then waved his hands vaguely in the air at her blank look. "You know, in the valley? It was screaming."

_"Screaming?!"_ She shrieked. Without saying another word she grabbed the horse's halter and started dragging her through the passage at a half-run. Seeing that the man wasn't following, she stopped and yelled back, "Well, come on! Screaming! Odds bobs, and you didn't think to _say_ anything?"

"I didn't want you to shoot me!" He sprinted after her into the dark and tried to catch his breath, run, and explain at the same time. The result was a mess of half-gasped sounds, but she clearly heard him because he heard her laugh wildly. Irritation gave him enough air to demand against the mocking echoes, "Doesn't the wind always do that?"

"No!" She sounded scornful. "Of course not!"

He was about to ask what the screaming meant when the tight air in the tunnel suddenly cleared, ad they burst out into the darkness of a clear night. The passage had led into a perfectly enclosed stretch of empty land, and even in the pitch-darkness he could smell the sweetness of flowing water and the softness of grass and living trees. Then a hand closed around his wrist, and the girl dragged him urgently into the blackness towards a dim light.

"Inside!" She gasped, "Take Emmie with you and leave the door open behind you. Go!"

"Emmie?" He asked, his head reeling. She laughed harshly and ran away.

"Your _horse,_ dolt!"

He gaped after her, then blinked at the horse, whose dim outline glowed with smugness. "Emmie?" He said hesitantly, and started reaching out for her when something stung his hand. He yelped and pulled it back, but it didn't feel like a bite. It felt more like a burn, as if he'd dragged his hand along sandpaper. Frowning, he looked up, and his eyes widened with realisation.

The night was pitch black now, but it wasn't clouds that covered the moon's face. Coils of dust filled the sky, writhing and pulsating in the grey-yellow darkness with intestinal grotesqueness. The storm was still young, still scatty, and sometimes a gasp of fresh air could be seen before it was torn away again by the howling dust. Only the tall walls of the valley had stopped the storm from flaying the flesh from their bones, but the rocks were starting to retch and creak at the onslaught as it grew stronger. It must have been building up for a while, and neither of them had noticed it.

The man gasped and ran for the house, realising in terrified alertness that the horse had already made her way through the door ahead of him. It was a strange door for a makeshift home, much wider and taller than a normal door, and dust was starting to blow in small drifts around it. Apart from the door, the wall was made of strong rocks and wood, held together with compacted mud. It looked like it could stand against anything.

He couldn't shut the door, not without the girl, and he wondered where she had run to. She obviously knew the danger far more keenly than he did, and yet she had run off into the storm. The man turned back, not going in to the house, and looked around for her desperately. The wind was stronger now, already blowing stinging dust into his eyes and mouth, and he spat grit from between his teeth in breathless impatience.

"Girl!" He bellowed, "Where are…!" He stopped and coughed, spitting out another mouthful of dust, and when he looked up he saw her. She was running towards him, her hands full of something, and the shadows from the dim light in the doorway made figures dance at her feet. One of the figures suddenly stopped, and she gasped and tripped over her own feet in an effort not to tread on it. She rolled as she landed, protecting whatever she held with desperate tenderness.

The man ran to her and caught her elbow, helping her up. She shook her head dizzily and looked up, then doubled over in a fit of coughing as another billow of dust dwarfed them. It tore at their skin, scratching it raw, and the girl cried out and scrabbled for something on the ground. It was the thing she'd tried not to step on, lying still and silent in the soft dust. The man picked it up for her and found that he was carrying an unconscious cat. The girl nodded her breathless thanks at his baffled expression. They fled to the house together, crouched against the dust, blinded by the storm.

The door slammed shut behind them and they both stumbled through, falling to the ground in exhaustion. In the sudden silence Numair could hear the girl breathing raggedly, coughing up lungfuls of dust and retching against her torn throat. He put the cat down carefully and struggled over to her.

"What the hell did you think you were _doing?"_ He demanded in a voice that bled, and started hacking harshly. She shook her head, sending clotted dust into the still air, and he caught her shoulder. The end of her shotgun was cold against his hand, and the steel was flayed dull by the dust, but it looked like a toy compared to the horrors outside. "You could have been killed!"

She looked up, and her eyes were red and almost blinded by tears. It might have been the dust making her cry but the man didn't think so. She held out her hands, and he understood.

Veralidaine Sarrasri, the dangerous outlaw wanted for the murder of twelve people, held out the five tiny kittens that nestled safely in her ravaged hands. They mewed weakly, their eyes still gummed shut with sleep even as the girl's eyes swam with tears.

"I just couldn't let them die."


	2. Are You Here to Kill Me?

The cat never woke up, no matter how much the girl tried to clear the dust from the little creature's lungs. The man didn't see the exact moment when the little chest stopped its struggle to breathe, but he felt the life go out as clearly as if someone had snuffed out a candle flame. Death was thick in the trapped air, as the storm howled outside, and every heartbeat made the breathless room a little different. The girl turned her face away for a moment, her lips shaping something like a prayer, and then her face fixed into a grim line and she stood up.

"Are you going to bury her?" The man asked, just for something to say. She shot him a scornful look and shook her head.

"What's the point of that? In all that dust? Scavengers will dig her up in less than two minutes." Her face softened for a moment as she looked at the cat's body, and a shade of warmth might have crept into her voice when she said, "Her kittens are safe. She was sheltering them when I got there, brave little thing."

"Burying her would be respectful," he persisted, watching her as she opened a trapdoor on the floor. Daine reached in to the cool stone space and pulled out a rough clay jug. She pursed her lips for a moment but ignored him, tipping some milk into a bowl and carefully putting the jug back into the small cellar. She disappeared into another room for a moment and came back with a piece of thin, soft cloth.

"It's best to look to the living," she said shortly, dipping the corner of the cloth into the milk and picking up one of the kittens. The creature protested softly but was soon lapping at the cloth teat with frantic hunger. The man watched all this without saying anything, and then asked if he could help. She shook her head, dismissing him as if he were utterly insignificant, and picked up the second kitten.

The man couldn't cope with this silence, not when he'd come so far to speak to this woman. No, not woman – he corrected himself – she was a girl. She wore her prickly skin like antique armour, but under its tarnished shell she couldn't have been more than seventeen or eighteen. Bright trails under her eyes where her tears had fallen showed unblemished, translucent skin, and she unconsciously chewed her lip with childlike nervousness when she was concentrating.

"I'm Numair. Numair Salmalin." He said.

"If you want something to do, then look after your horse." She replied, not looking up. As soon as she spoke her eyes narrowed, and she could have been any age again. A vein of disgust ran through her words as she said, "She needs currying, and it doesn't look like you've taken that saddle off in days, and her hooves are in shreds – don't you have a file? - and her mane is a _disgrace."_

"And her name is Emmie, right?" He retorted sarcastically, stung at being lectured to by a girl. She shrugged.

"I don't reckon you have your own name for her. Don't seem like you'd care enough. Emmie's the name that's her own. She might not _want_ you callin' her that." She picked up the third kitten and muttered, "…fair sure I wouldn't."

He threw his hands up in a pantomime of retorts and turned to Emmie, who was watching the exchange with an expression of curious sleepiness. When he started unbuckling her saddle she started and blinked at him, the whites of her eyes suddenly visible.

"I know," he said gently, stroking her neck, "But we won't have to leave in a hurry this time, I promise. So… so this is safe, alright? Everything will be fine."

The horse shivered under his hand, and then sighed loudly and calmed down. Numair took the saddle off as carefully as he could, wincing as some of the contents shifted and clinked against each other. If the glass in the bag broke it could ruin everything. But the noise soon stopped, and he eased the bag to the ground and took out his currying kit. Steeling himself against the horse's expert collection of nips and kicks, he started teasing the knots and dust out of her mane.

"How did you know that?" The girl asked in a curious voice he hadn't heard before. "How'd you know why she was scared?"

"She's used to being in danger. You think you're the first person to point a gun at us?" He laughed at the expression on her face, goaded into being cruel after the way she'd spoken to him. "Oh, Miss Veralidaine Sarrasri, I'm not scared of you. If I wanted to kill you and take your head to the sheriff I would do it. And it would be so _easy."_

The gun was in her hands before he could draw another breath, and the stale room filled with the sound of the shell clacking into the barrel. "Just you try it, Numair." She hissed.

He ignored her, carrying on with his careful combing. "No thank you. I told you. I'm not a threat to you."

"Even if I'm a threat to you?" She demanded, still glaring down the sight at him. He sighed and picked up the softer curry brush. His words were flat, honest, blunt.

"You're not."

Emmie looked at the furious girl for a moment, and then did something Numair had never seen his horse do before: she slowly, deliberately, nodded. The girl's eyes met the horse's, and she bit her lip in that oddly babyish way. They were silent for a long time, listening to the howl of the wind outside, and then Daine put the gun back in its holster and said, very carefully, "I think… you need to tell me why you were looking for me."

"No I don't." Numair finished brushing down the horse and patted her neck, feeling how silky her hair felt under his hand now it wasn't matted. He felt rather guilty about that.

Still, even if the girl had been right about that, she was still a nightmare about anything else. He didn't want to tell her why he wanted her until he thought she might agree, and he knew that if he told this savage, defensive girl anything she would spit it back in his face. At his refusal she had planted her hands on her hips, her square chin set stubbornly as she rose to her feet. Even this furious, he noted dispassionately, she had thought to take a few steps away from the nest of well-fed kittens.

 _How much of this is an act, Veralidaine?_ He thought, and unexpectedly felt his normal emotional detachment waver into an odd sympathy as it told him the answer: How else would a young girl survive out here, alone?

"You're in my _home!"_ She said, and the real tears that glimmered unshed in her eyes took the man aback. He hadn't realised she was actually scared, but now he realised how she must feel, trapped by the storm inside a place that was supposed to be safe, with a complete stranger who wouldn't even explain why he was here. He raised his hands and took a step back, letting her be the stronger person.

"I didn't mean I won't tell you. I meant that I… I'm very tired, Veraidaine. It's making me lash out at you, and I don't want to talk to you in a harmful way. I've been looking for you for… well, for years, if you must know. But I don't want to tell you why right now. It'll take too long and what with the years and the storm and the... the unprecedented horse-cosmeticizing I'm… I'm worn out."

"Are you here to kill me?" She asked, her voice suddenly ancient in its lack of emotion. He shook his head emphatically, and she smiled like a wolf. "Oh? Why not? What makes you so different to everyone else in the world, Numair?"

"I didn't tell you my name so you could use it as an insult," he said darkly.

She shrugged, and he looked around the room to give himself time to gather his thoughts. The whole building was one large room, more like a small barn than a house, and judging by the size of the door and the makeshift mangers ringing the walls Emmie wasn't the first large animal to be let inside. The roof was as hardy as the walls, but the rafters were filled with bright glitters which – when he looked closely – turned out to be the watchful eyes of tens of birds and bats and even squirrels. He couldn't help gasping at the sight, and when he looked down Daine was smiling wryly.

"They do what I tell 'em." She said. "Do you still think I'm no threat?"

"I'm going to sleep." He said, and turned his back on her with deliberate arrogance to unpack his bedroll from the saddlebag. He heard Daine draw a breath as if to say something, and then there was a half-frustrated exhale of air as she turned away herself. When he looked back around he saw that she had climbed up some wooden struts in the wall to the rafters, and was awkwardly pushing something off one of the slats. The lizards who were dozing there hissed at her and then moved.

The bundle fell to the ground with a soft thud, and the girl jumped down after it. Emmie darted forward at the sweet smell of dried wild grasses, and nuzzled the girl's shoulder affectionately for a moment before diving into the bag with every sound of pleasure.

Daine patted the horse absently and glanced around, chewing on her fingernail nervously as she looked at the man who was settling into his bedroll. It was on the far side of the room from her own pallet bed but she hadn't slept in the same house as another human being since living with her family. She had never shared a room with a man, and she wasn't quite sure what to do. In the end she hesitantly pulled off her outer clothes, wincing as grit fell through the seams onto her spine. She brushed the worst of the dust from her body and hair, and before she slipped into bed in her grimy underclothes she made a point of picking up the gun and making sure that it hadn't been damaged in the storm. Then she reloaded both barrels and climbed into bed, setting it on the floor in between herself and the intruder.

"I wouldn't worry." The man said sleepily, the sardonic drawl in his voice almost disguised by the howling wind. "I'm not interested in you."

"Really? All I know is you don't want to kill me." She said sharply, "Unless you want to tell me diff'rent, I swear I'll shoot you if you come any closer to me than… than that table."

He raised himself on his elbow and his expression was incredulous. "Veralidaine Sarrasri, I would rather sleep with a _cactus_ than with you. At least all _their_ spikes are on the outside."

"And I would pay good money to see you try." She retorted snidely. He flushed and turned onto his other side, looking away from her. She glared at him, still feeling the sting of his insult. After a moment she realised she couldn't trust him enough to look away or let her own eyes close. Instead she watched his back move as he slowly relaxed. Then she watched the gentler movement as his shoulder rose and fell with his deep, peaceful breathing.

 _How is he a threat?_ She thought, remembering Emmie's warning nod. The man didn't look like much. He was much taller than her, but he was desperately thin. His eyes were bright, but what she could see of him under the dust looked calloused by the desert and a hard life of wandering the trails. Not that he looked like a gunslinger. His voice was too soft and the cultured tones in it made him seem weak, laughably pitiful.

It was a wonder he hadn't been shot, Daine thought. She didn't think he was even carrying a weapon! Like her, he had taken off his dust-stained outer clothes to sleep. There was no holster or gunbelt in the pile. She couldn't imagine those long fingers wrapped around a gun. It would be like watching a spider trying to open a can of beans.

But Emmie said he was dangerous. As distrustful as she was of the man, Daine believed his horse implicitly. The creature was small-minded, petty and surly, but she had an odd empathy with her human master that shone through her grey mind like an amber flame. She forgave his half-neglect and carelessness with the same casual nonchalance that man forgave her nips and kicks.

Daine had snapped at Numair for his treatment of the horse, but Emmie snidely scolded her back even as the man teased knots from her mane. 

_How do you know what we've been through, human?_ She demanded, flicking a hoof out at the man's ankle and winning a yelp. _Sometimes it's better to be dirty than dead. If we'd stopped to make ourselves pretty then they would have caught us.  
_  
The girl remembered that comment, biting her lip to force her eyes to stay open. She could hear the horse tucking in to the sweet hay, and sent her mind out to find Emmie's jaded wild-voice.

 _Emmie, who is he running from?_ She asked, not looking away from the man. He looked like he was asleep, but her hand crept down to the gun anyway. It felt reassuring against her fingers, but the leather strap was scratched by dust and rough under her touch. The horse snorted loudly, but the man didn't stir.

 _Men._ Emmie said, _He says they're bad men. I don't know that. I don't care. They're men, and they smell like black powder and metal._

 _Not the law?_ She sent a mental picture into the creature's head – a sheriff's badge with sharp pointed edges, a dust coat of faded leather, a swaggering walk, weathered hands hovering over a holstered sidearm. The horse shook her head, and the stifling air in the room shifted a little.

_Not them. We stay away from the law, sure enough, but we don't have to run from them._

Daine frowned. She tried to make sense of it but her eyes kept sliding shut with crushing weariness. She wasn't aware of falling asleep, but when she finally did it was with the comforting icy coolness of the shotgun resting against her fingertips


	3. The Man Wants Me Dead

Numair felt softness against his face, and panicked at the unusual comfort for a moment until he woke up fully and realised he was defending himself against a towel. Someone was looking down at him, hesitating as if dropping the cloth had been the only way they could think of to awaken him without actually touching him.

"There's… there's clean water by the fire. And… an' soap, and that. Not much soap, mind, but I guess you've been on the road a fair while so you're used to that. An' I found a knife, sharpened it, I mean, in case you wanted to shave I guess. I don't really know what men do, but I figured you might want… need… I dunno."

He blinked at the rambling creature. It was a girl, dressed in a simple, worn kilted dress of that thick tartan cloth the traders all brought into the towns in bolts for its hardiness and bright colour. Soft brown curls were pulled back from her face in a ponytail, but she had clearly washed her hair recently and the damp strands were freeing themselves from the tie quicker than she could tame them. He honestly didn't recognise her for a long moment, and then wakefulness lit a lamp in his mind. The redness in her skin, like a bad sunburn, reminded him of the way the dust had torn at him, and he definitely remembered those sharp grey eyes and the echoing steel grey of the gun slung at her back. He mumbled, "Veralidaine?"

"Daine." She said, and then winced and darted away. "I have things to do. Storm did a fair lot of damage. So… so I'll be a while outside," she called back over her shoulder.

"Still carrying that gun, I see." He muttered after her, and cradled his head in his hands for a moment. His head ached abominably from the close, pressing atmosphere of the air the night before, and it wasn't until he splashed tepid water from the bucket onto his face that the pounding sensation started to fade.

 _She's trying to be nice._ He thought, rinsing dust from his hair and noticing that the towel drying on the other side of the fire was far more worn than the one she had given him. Immediately his mind took the gesture and demanded, _What's she up to?_

The idea that it might be a genuine gesture was hard for Numair to process. Perhaps a decade ago, before he started this downward spiral which led him deep into the desert, he might have simply appreciated the hospitality. But now he was jaded, suspicious.

He was pulling clean clothes on and trying to work out her devious mind when the bucket made a croaking sound. A large frog leapt out of the water onto the rim, jumped at the sight of the man, and then fell down to the stones of the hearth with a wet plop. Numair cried out in surprise and kicked the bucket over, and then started laughing helplessly.

That was how Daine found him a moment later when she darted in, eyes wide at the man's cry. She took in the scene in an instant, but until the hopelessly giggling man pointed at the frog that was trying to skulk away her own grim expression didn't change. Then she understood, and leaned against the doorframe with an unconsciously captivating smile.

"Oh, Tim." She said with playful weariness in her voice. "I think you've scared yourself, this time!" She looked up at Numair's confused expression, smiled again and explained, "The frog likes to hide in the bucket and try to scare me. He wasn't expecting to see someone else when he jumped out today, were you, Tim?"

The frog croaked wanly and made a slow, dignified exit towards the door. Daine watched him go, and then picked up the bucket. "I'll get you some more water."

"It's alright," The man shook his head. "I was about done, anyway. And you don't have to do all this." He gestured at the bucket, the towel, the rather pathetic sliver of soap.

"You were filthy." She shrugged, with a spark of her old contrariness. "Messin' up my house, and that. If you give me your clothes I can wash 'em before you take your leave."

The pointed hint was heavily stressed, and he nodded his understanding with a slow, easy half-smile. "As you say, ma'am. Thank you."

"Don't call me ma'am." She forced herself to smile, even though her words were strained, and gathered up his bundle of dust-streaked clothes. "I told you my name's Daine, not Veralidaine like on all the wanted posters, and not ma'am like some 'spectful lady. Daine. You said you wanted to find me, so I reckon you think there's more to me than what gets written before 'dead or alive'. I ain't a damn poster."

She looked up then and caught sight of the man's open look of surprise. She reddened, perhaps thinking that she'd said too much. Closing her mouth with an almost audible snap, she picked up a mangle that lay near the door.

"Daine, then." The man said, and stepped closer to her. "Seems like a fair trade, for you're the first person I told my real name to in years."

"Trade, he says! I want no coin for my own sweet name, nor would I give two bits for your own. Must everything be a deal with you?" She hoisted the mangle over her shoulder with the ease of long practice. He bit back his words at the suddenly closed-off expression on her face, and sighed when the door slammed behind her.

Numair rubbed the space between his eyes wearily, wondering how on earth he could break through to the girl. Just when he thought he could see some softness behind those stormy grey eyes her shell would come crashing down again. He always seemed to say exactly the wrong thing to her, and her cutting retorts made his hands itch into fists.

 _Never mind convincing her to help me,_ he thought bitterly, _If I can stop myself from throttling that she-cat before I leave it'll be a damned miracle!_

He tidied his hair with the currying comb, for he had no other, and tied it back. His hands fell into their usual patient steadiness as he carried out the familiar action, and his quick temper faded a little. The water the frog had splashed onto his jeans steamed and dried in the close air.

Numair rubbed his eyes, wincing at the tender skin around them, and realised that the softness in the air was the odd haze of dust from the night before. He frowned and saw that one of the shutters had been warped by the wind during the night, letting in a drift, and far more of the reddish-grey grit was heaped in the smothered fireplace. It must have come down the chimney. The nest of kittens had been carefully moved to the girl's bed, leaving a perfect circle of clean stone where the nest had sat, but apart from that the girl had let the dust lie.

Clearing out the dust gave him time to think, and gave him something useful to do for the first time since he had arrived here. He wondered why the girl hadn't done it herself – she seemed to keep so busy all the time – and then remembered the milk she had drawn up from the cellar. She must have cattle, then, and sheep too if the woollen blanket on her bed was anything to go by. She was probably tending to them first, before her own home. It made sense, the man supposed, as it would be far worse to starve than to have a blocked chimney, but it still made him thoughtful. He couldn't think of another woman who would leave her house in such chaos to sweep out a cattle barn.

He winced at the thought and moved the broken shutter to and fro, wondering where she kept her tools so he might fix it. Even after six years, thinking about women made him shudder. He avoided their company as much as possible now. Even on the rare times when loneliness drove him into the arms of the women in the smoke-filled brothels of the cattle towns he barely spoke. They didn't care if he was a poet, they just cared for his coin – and if he winced away at the rustle of their satin skirts, they didn't comment on it. They had their own dark pasts, too, and the girls recognised the root of his distaste. If the sight of luxurious, fashionable gowns made the man look askance at them then they just took them off that much sooner.

Better not to think about Daine as a woman, then. He hadn't expected her to be so young – in fact, he had imagined some scarred, cackling crone with a glint in her eye and murder in her heart. That's how people described the infamous Murderer of the Millay Gang, and that was the person he'd come to beg for help. Surprise, even disappointment, had made him more cold and cruel towards her than he had planned, and he wasn't surprised at her answering loathing. He might have felt guilty but he almost hated her for being so small and young and sharp. The fact that she was his only hope made him resent her, and the fact that she was such a mewling insect made him despise her. He didn't want to beg this woman to help him. If he dragged her away by force, he thought irritably, she would confess all he needed to know in less than a week.

Someone cleared their throat. He looked up and paled. She was leaning against the doorframe, watching him levelly over folded arms, and he wondered if she could see any of what he'd been thinking. The thorns in her eyes marked him as a liar, anyway. He had forgotten that stubborn, barbed strength when his thoughts had sped ahead of him, and he hadn't considered the easy, lethal way she held her gun. Even now her hands were curved, as if ready to draw it and defend herself. She smiled sardonically.

She knows. He thought, and swallowed. The only reason anyone would come here is to take her away, and she knows that.

"I trusted you with a knife," she said slowly, as if reading his thoughts, and the smile didn't fade. "I reckon I can trust you with a hammer. You can pay for your breakfast that way if you like, Mas'er Trader."

"I'm not a trader." He replied. "But sure, I'll fix the shutter for you, if it needs doing."

"And then we'll have breakfast." She repeated patiently, and handed him a wooden toolbox. "I've done fixin' up the barn, in any case, and there should be enough nails left over even if you make an ass's job of it. By the looks of you, you're more a trader than a carpenter."

"I'm neither." He said stiffly. "And you're trying to vex me."

"So no tears'll be shed when you leave my precious side, beloved." She quipped tartly, and turned away from him, conversation over. The man gritted his teeth and got on with fixing the shutter, hearing the clatter of pans behind him. The girl hummed softly to herself as she cracked eggs into a pan, and for some reason the sound made his anger fade away. Unlike last night, he realised belatedly, there had been no real malice in her words.

"Emmie's out on the pasture, by the way," Daine said, surprising him by voluntarily breaking the silence. She sounded a little uncertain as she carried on, "There's a nice bit of grazing there, for all that it's been burned by the dust. My Cloud's looking out for her and knows the way back through the maze, so she'll be fair safe whoever's followin' you." She cleared her throat and added, almost defiantly, "I'm sorry for what I said yesterday. You're a lousy horseman, but I was wrong to say you don't care about her, I know. So, there it is."

He looked around at her. "That was a very barbed apology, Daine."

She blushed and looked back at the eggs, lifting the edges with a flat wooden spoon. "Yes, well. I was rude, I know it. Even if we were forced into it by the storm you're still a guest here. My ma would've boxed my ears if she'd've heard me speakin' to a guest so poorly."

The man said nothing. He knew her mother. He knew her as a dead body, burned and twisted in the grainy photographs that the rail men had gleefully sent back to the press. The story was as infamous in the east as the name was ridiculous. They called her Smokin' Sarra in crude folk songs across the nation, eyes glinting in stupid pleasure at the double meaning - the beautiful woman and her grisly death, tied together in tongue-caressing alliteration. He didn't know the version of Daine's mother who would box her ears for rudeness. He hammered a board straight and made a noncommittal sound, deftly fixing it in place with a single nail.

"I'm not apologisin' for anything else, mind." Daine said, almost as an afterthought. "I didn't _ask_ you to come here."

That was a prompt for him to start speaking, he knew, and he looked around. Daine was busying herself finding plates and cutlery, taking a tin of biscuits out of a cupboard and brewing stale coffee in a battered metal pot. She was still scared of him, he could see that in the tense set of her shoulders and her hesitation whenever she turned her back on him, but her hands never trembled. She poured boiling water over the coffee grounds without spilling a drop. Despite himself, Numair had to admit he was impressed. Perhaps she wasn't the fierce outlaw he'd hoped for, he thought, but she certainly had grit.

"I came to find you." He said.

"No, you came to take me away." She corrected him, her voice soft and open. She looked around, and the thorns in her eyes were gone. "I understand that. You don't have to lie about it. I don't blame you, either. A thousand dollars is a lot of money."

"Yes," he said roughly, "Fine, I'll say it. You're right. I came to take you away."

She smiled and handed him a plate and a cup of coffee, as if he was a dog she was rewarding for learning a new trick. "There. It's not so hard, tellin' the truth, is it?"

He sipped the bitter brown liquid, scalding his tongue, and let his eyes rest on the gun that was still strung over her shoulder. He didn't need to ask, but she nodded anyway. They both knew that if he tried to force her to leave then she would shoot him. Neither of them was dismissing the possibility just yet, but they had reached enough of a truce to sit down together and eat, at least.

"When did you work it out?" He asked. She shrugged.

"When the birds told me there was someone in the maze. I don't get friendly visitors."

"And the people who _do_ come here?"

"They don't leave." Daine said simply. Then she bit into a biscuit as if she hadn't just admitted to murder. He blinked at her, tiny little thing that she was, and started laughing. He took another sip of coffee to stop the hysterical mirth from offending her.

"They said that this place is haunted." He said, and waved his hand vaguely towards the east. "In the town. What with the animals running away here, and such. They warned me not to come here. They said it has claimed hundreds of lives…"

"More like ten." She snorted, and raised an eyebrow at his expression. "And they deserved it. I have no great love for bounty hunters. What do they think I am, some shaman witch? They tell such fanciful stories but then they come in here anyway with their pistols holstered and eyes blinded by the sun, and nothing but a thousand dollars in their stupid heads."

"But you _are_ a witch." He pointed out softly, and looked at the kittens which were happily squeaking at each other in a ray of warm sunlight. "Your magic is… is different from any I've ever seen before. The stories are right about that."

She shrugged and poured herself a second cup of coffee. The man privately thought she was just giving herself something to do, because she drank the stale brew with the same look of distaste that he had worn. He chewed a mouthful of food slowly, savouring the first taste of fresh egg he'd had in months.

"Why did you save my life?" he asked eventually, "You could have left me out in the storm."

"You're not a bounty hunter." She evaded the question.

"I might have been lying." He persisted, trying to work out the twisting trail of her thoughts. She smiled thinly, and drew her gun. She didn't load it or even rest her hand near the trigger, but instead swung the long barrel towards his leg. When the metal pipe knocked against his ankle they both heard the dull clanging noise of cloth-covered iron.

"Since when do bounty hunters work the chain gangs, Numair?" She asked softly, not moving the gun away. He flushed and drew his leg back, suddenly too aware of the dull iron rubbing blisters into his ankle. She watched him calmly and then let go of the gun with a finality that dismissed the weapon as soon as it clattered onto the stone floor.

"Why are you here?" Daine asked for the third time, and he knew he had to answer.

"I … I told you I made an enemy. Well, his name is Ozorne. He's the chairman of Cart Hak Rail. He's a powerful man, and I'm running from him. The man wants me dead." he said.

"What does that have to do with me?" She was already erasing his problems from her life with a half-mocking smile. He sighed and tugged at his nose, wishing there was an easier way to tell her this. For all he knew, his story would make her pick up the gun and empty both barrels into his head. He took a deep breath.

"Ozorne is corrupt and twisted and murderous, but that means nothing to the law. He's a tycoon, and he can buy them off. But I found out the truth – something so obscene he can hang for it – and he put a bounty on my head just for knowing it."

"So you figured you'd tell me?" She smiled over-brightly and her voice was a brittle drawl. "It's not like two bounties are worse than one, I suppose! Did you come here to find a confidante, Numair?" She fluttered her eyelashes at him mockingly and stood up, brushing dust from her knees. "I don't have time for this nonsense. I want none of your conspiracies. Take your clothes and go away."

He caught her wrist, and when she glared at him he said the words that he had kept secret for so many years to the one person in the world who could prove that they were true.

"Daine, he was the leader of the Millay Gang."

Her face froze, and he could see the thorns growing back in her eyes, black and barbed and sharp as shattered glass. For a moment she stared at him, not believing, and when she saw nothing but truth in his eyes she made an odd sound and wrenched her hand free. Chest heaving with un-sounded sobs, she drew the hand back and slapped him hard across the face.

"Why couldn't you just _leave?"_ she hissed, her voice hoarse and hurt and utterly broken. "Why?"

"I have nowhere else to go," he said.

"Then you go to hell," Daine spat, picking up her gun with shaking hands. "You go to hell, Numair Salmalin, and you _burn."_

"I'm already there." He finally lost his patience and grabbed the gun. He forced it from her numb hands easily and turned it on her. "I've been living in flames for six years, girl, and so have you. The railway is coming. They'll bring their black powder and their iron horses and turn this place into dust around your ears. You and I are in danger, and we're fast running out of places to hide. It's time to fight back. I've spent six years trying to find you, and by god I'll not let you run away from me again."

The girl had whitened when he'd taken her gun; now she dropped to the floor as if her legs shook too much to hold even her slight weight. Numair tried very, very hard not to hate himself. He failed. Even though Daine looked up at him with loathing it came nowhere near the raw, sickening hatred Numair felt for himself at that moment.

"I hate you." She whispered, and even though he already knew that fact he still felt his heart twist at the betrayed expression on her face. He forced himself to be still, to keep his chin set and his voice cold.

"There is no possible universe, Daine, where you and I would have been friends." She looked at the ground, at her folded hands, and he felt unbearably sorry for her. His words softened. "It's just not what this is about, girl. The sooner you get used to that, the easier this will be."

"You're going to give me to Ozorne." She said in a hollow voice, and he started in actual horror as she carried on. "You're going to give me to the man who sent those men to… to…" she shuddered and for a moment he thought she might throw up. Instead, she looked up at him with burning eyes. "Is it easy for you to sell me? I thought you said you _weren't_ a bounty hunter."

"I'm not. And I'm not going to give you to him. Nor _sell_ you, before you start arguing semantics. I would never do that. God, Daine, what the hell do you think I am?" He exhaled sharply and lowered the gun, then ran his hand through his hair. "Why must you always assume the worst of me? I really don't mean you any harm at all. If you would just stop… stop being so damned stubborn and defensive and just _listened_ to me…"

"Then what? I'll happily leave my home, and my friends, and follow you through towns full of people who want to hang me?" She giggled hysterically and shook her head, curls flying wildly. "I even know what you're going to say – to try to convince me, I mean. You have it all planned out, don't you?"

He hesitated, and she grinned mockingly. A weakness, at last! Her eyes glowed with fierce intelligence and her voice took on a desperate, mocking twang.

"Oh, Miss Millay Murderer! Why, aren't you the one who hunted down all those bandits? Oh, it _was_ you? Well, fancy that! Did you know, the one in the gold waistcoat, the one who got away from you, he's still alive? Why, yes ma'am, as large as you like and a railway tycoon, no less! – Well, you could just knock me down with a _feather,_ Mister Salmalin! – Ain't that the truth, ma'am! Seems a _shame_ to let him get away with it, don't it? Awful unfair that he's still alive when your poor dear mama has the vultures pickin' at her bones, wouldn't you say? How's about we… hunt him down? Whaddoya say? Just the two of us, quiet-like, all cosy'd up and murderin' together…"

"Stop it." He interrupted her sharply. He had gone quite white, and he rested his head in his hands as if it ached. "Just… stop it."

"Why?" She asked, "You know I'm right. Now you don't have to say it."

"So what if you're right?" He took his head out of his hands and looked at her defiantly, and she was shocked to see tears shining in his eyes. Her words had cut him to the quick, and she could see his self-assurance crumbling away before her eyes. He spoke raggedly. "Yes Daine, I planned this, but I'm not just here for my benefit. You're in danger, however much you want to argue about it."

"From _you?"_ She asked, and there was more mockery than wariness in the question. He shook his head.

"Once I decided to find you it took me a less than a few months to work out who you are and where you were hiding. Ozorne's had longer to search… and I don't think it's any coincidence that his railway is coming right through this valley. He's tracking you down." He saw her blanch, and his words quickened and grew more persuasive, "You have to face him, and so do I. If he kills you then I'll be next. He won't be betting on us working together, and besides, I thought you would want to finish what you started. If you want to kill him, you'll need my help."

"Well, I don't want to kill him." She lied, and then an alien note of raw honesty crept into her voice. "I was a different person back then."

"I was a surveyor." He said in a flat voice, and she gaped at him. He smiled wanly at her baffled expression and nodded. "Yes, a surveyor. Just a few steps above an accountant, really. I was surrounded by books and ink and maps and that was all I wanted from life." He sighed and shook his head. "Now I'm traipsing through the desert, running away from bounty hunters and threatening little girls. In another five years, who knows? I probably would have sold you."

"I'm not a little girl." She said. "That's what I _was_ , when it happened."

"What are you now?" He asked, and beneath the challenge there was genuine curiosity. She opened her mouth, and then shook her head.

"I'm… I'm home." She said finally, "And that's not going to change. Sorry. I know this means a lot to you but I can't – no, I won't – leave."

He looked up, and beneath his reddened eyes there was a grim vein of frozen iron. "Sorry." He echoed the word back to her, and once again his voice grew cold and merciless, "But I'm not giving you a choice."


	4. Responsible Kidnapping

She was planning something. He could tell.

It wasn't the way that she looked at her gun. He held it carefully in his lap as he watched her moving about the house, packing a trail bag like he'd ordered her to but with excruciating slowness. He didn't need to use a gun, of course, but he didn't want her to have it. It made his threats seem more sincere, he guessed, although his distaste for any drawn weapon made him hold it wrong-handed in some secret, twisted moral protest. He watched the girl carefully. Her plan wasn't written on her stubbornly-set face, but he knew her mind was racing. She didn't look at the gun;, it was more the way that she looked at everything _but_ the gun. She avoided looking at it so intently it was as if the damn weapon was glowing in his hands.

"Don't try anything." He said, and winced at the silly words. He felt ridiculously uncomfortable in the role of captor. If he didn't have the gun she would be laughing at this pathetic show rather than taking him seriously. But he did have the gun, so she scowled at him and didn't answer. She lifted a faded water-skin out of her cupboard and knotted its leather ties to the saddlebag she had already filled with clothes and food

He knew she hadn't killed all those bandits and bounty hunters by overpowering them. It was her sharp, intelligent cunning that he was wary of, not the gun he had taken from her. He watched her like a hawk. He wasn't afraid of her. She had no idea of the precautions he'd already taken to protect himself. But he was afraid that she would do something desperate and end up hurting herself.

Doubtless it would ruin all his plans, but the un-summoned thought that circled above that in his mind was more human, more shockingly empathetic than any other thought he'd had in years: _I would never forgive myself if I hurt this girl._

Daine finished packing and pulled the last few straps tight with a vengeance, yanking them so hard the leather creaked. Then she stood, hands hanging empty and limp at her sides, and looked at him. There was nothing in her expression. Nothing. She met his eyes with a bovine, uncaring iciness that belied the racing of her mind beneath it. Numair sighed and stood up, hoisting the gun up into his hands and making ready to leave.

"My kittens will die." She said, and there was a challenge in her voice. She didn't look around at the mewing cats, but simply held his gaze.

"You can take them with you," he replied. She shrugged.

"They'll still die. After two days in that desert sun I'll have nothin' but sour milk to feed 'em."

"We'll be passing through towns, ranches." The man said shortly, and picked up his own bag. "We're not crossing the desert."

"Oh." She said noncommittally.

"Take the cats if you want to. I promise you they'll not starve." He tried a cautious, reassuring smile but the expression faded when he met her cold eyes.

After a moment she turned away and carefully filled her water-skin with the chilled milk, and then took something from beside her bed. It wasn't until she strung it across her chest that the man recognised the thing as one of the slings the homesteaders carried their babies in. The girl caught sight of his expression and shrugged one shoulder, gently lifting the protesting kittens into the curve of soft fabric.

"You think this is the first time I've left my home? Please." She snorted with a touch of her normal cynical humour. "You said it yourself. I've been running and hiding for most of my life."

"You… had a child?" He asked, unable to shake off the sudden feeling of guilt that the thought fostered. She shook her head scornfully and he reddened, actually embarrassed by his own question. He cleared his throat awkwardly and gestured towards the door, watching her cautiously as she sauntered ahead of him, chin in the air.

"We'll collect the horses first." He said, and in an attempt to defuse the tension smiled and said, "Emmie and Cloud, right? Then we'll head off."

"Where are we going?" She asked in a tone of voice that clearly said that wherever he planned to go to, it was a stupid idea. The man's shy smile faded and he was silent again. Daine huffed loudly and switched her bag to her other arm. There was something in her gait, some lightness that Numair was highly suspicious of. Whatever she was planning, he thought, he was walking right into it. Then she reached the passage which led through the wall of her hidden valley, and he understood.

 _I'm sure I can find my own way through._ He thought, remembering with a shiver the dark shadows that had turned one wall into three the night before. There were hoof tracks in the dust, as well, where she had led Emmie and – Cloud, was that even right? Who would call a horse Cloud? Perhaps it was Claude? – through to the pasture. She couldn't get him lost, then. But he didn't know what else lurked in the twisting passages.

She could command animals. For all Numair knew she could coax spiders to string massive, invisible traps across the stone walls. He looked up unconsciously and shuddered, but when she glanced back he made sure his face was stoic. They were both waiting for the other one to show weakness. The only reason that Daine was biding her time, he knew, was because she didn't know what he was capable of.

Daine led him quickly through the maze, choosing her path with almost mindless ease as the rocks got higher and the trail grew darker. He couldn't see if they were following the hoof prints any more, for the ground was so shadowed. Then she stopped, so suddenly that he nearly bumped into her.

"I remember him." She said, before he could tell her to carry on. Her voice held an odd note, and he couldn't see her expression enough in the darkness to understand it. He drew a breath, and she interrupted him again. "The man in the golden waistcoat. I saw him. He left first, even before the sun set. The other men stayed for a night, while they… before they set fire to everything, they stayed for a night. I hid. I lay with the snakes in the underbrush and I watched them. I heard them. I heard what they said. And my mother. I heard her, too. I heard what they _did."_

He said nothing. There wasn't much he could say. He saw her turn around, and when she faced him her eyes shone, wide and guileless in the half-light. She blinked, and then did something that absolutely stunned the man: she fell to her knees and clasped her hands together.

"Please, I'm askin' you. This is the last time I'll ask. The last time. Please, try to understand why I can't… why I can't face him. You know who he is, and what he is, but I know what he _did._ And I… I know what will happen to me if I have to go back to all that. I'm better on my own, believe me. I can control it here. However much danger you say I'm in, I'll be better off facin' it here, I swear. But if you take me away… whatever you're plannin', it'll get messy and _you won't be able to stop it._ Please, don't make me do this."

"Get up." He said impatiently. "I don't know what you're talking about, and I won't change my mind for riddles."

"Yes," she said sadly. "That's what I thought you'd say." And she stood up so rapidly that he took a step back. A beam of dusty light shone down and lit up the barrel of the pistol she had whipped out of the sling. She pointed it at him, holding it with steady hands mere inches from his skin.

"I gave you every chance." She said. "Goodbye, Numair."

Then, without a moment's hesitation, she aimed between his eyes and fired.

888

He felt the impact before he even saw the flash of the gun firing, and for a moment the world seemed to hold its breath. The gun roared, echoes shouting back after it for an eternity, and the metal slug shrieked its way free of the chamber.

Then… nothing. The world kept spinning, the shock still hadn't moved from his racing heart to the pounding pain in his head, but all of that seemed very far away. He was dimly aware of falling backwards, landing in dust that was softer than feathers under his fisted hands.

Sound returned, slowly.

The bullet fell to the ground, flattened and warped like a crushed beetle, infesting the dust which writhed around the sudden heat. It made a dull thunk, and even the distant birds had stopped singing. There was only the sound of his harsh breathing.

That was how he knew he was still alive. He raised a shaking hand to his head and there was no mark, no wound. There was just the pain, as if he'd been bludgeoned rather than shot.

"How did you do that?" The girl breathed, her eyes huge. They narrowed and she raised the weapon again, aiming with more deliberate callousness than anger. "No-one can do that. You can't stop bullets with the Gift. Everyone knows that."

"Don't –" he began breathlessly, and then flinched back when she fired again. She hit the same spot, her aim unerring a second time and again for the third, and then she shrieked in frustration and fired the gun empty, not caring where she hit. He curled up defensively, feeling his whole body shudder with every blow to the shield he'd been holding in place since he'd first walked into her home. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think to raise a hand or try to speak. The percussive shots turned into flattened clicks as the girl sobbed and kept firing, barely conscious that she held a useless weapon.

The silence returned, and the birds still weren't singing, but something about the silence made him drag his head upright, staring wide-eyed into the darkness.

He had dropped the shotgun when she first shot him, and now she had picked it up. It was loaded and so she was already aiming, tensed, ready to fire. And the sight made his blood run cold.

She wasn't pointing the gun at him. She knew there was no point. Bullets couldn't hurt him. She held it under her own chin, and her hands shook as she lowered her right hand to the awkwardly-placed trigger.

"Daine," he breathed, not daring to move, not trusting himself to even blink. "Oh no, no Daine, don't."

"Why?" She demanded, and her voice held pure, terrified desperation. "Why _not?_ You don't understand what will happen to me if I leave! I can't do anything _else!"_

He could shield her, he thought, but he knew it wouldn't work. He had used so much of his gift defending himself from her panicked attack that there was no way he had enough strength remaining to stop a shotgun shell fired at point-blank range. He couldn't talk to her, either. Neither of them, he thought far too late, had understood anything the other one said. She had tried to explain but he had refused to listen, and now it was too late. Whatever kept her hiding in this labyrinth, it wasn't fear of Ozorne. She was deathly afraid of something else: something she would rather die for than unleash on the world.

"You'll fall on the kittens," he croaked. She instinctively blanched and her eyes flicked down. He threw himself forward, not caring how his body screamed in pain even before he crashed into her. He grabbed the long barrel of the gun with both hands. She screamed and pulled the trigger, and then clutched her ears as the crash of the gun echoed, amplified into a screeching shockwave by the rocks.

Daine dragged her hands from her ears in less than a minute, shoving at the man who had knocked her down. He had fallen heavily against her, gasping in pain, and the shock of landing had forced the shotgun from his grip. She pushed herself clear and reached down. Before she could grab the gun he gripped it with shaking hands, aimed away from both of them and squeezed the trigger. The echoes lasted a long time, and he sagged down into the dust with dog-tired exhaustion. She stared at him and at the gun, barely believing that he'd thrown away his last chance to win.

"Don't." He murmured, the words cracking in both of their ringing ears. He shuddered and reached one hand up. She flinched and kicked him further away, ready to fight off a knife or another weapon. He barely seemed to feel the blow in his exhaustion, but his hand fell away from his shoulder. The fingertips were stained with blood. The shotgun shell – the one she had meant for herself – had bitten deeply into his shoulder scant seconds after she had aimed it at her own head.

"But…" Daine whispered, inching away backwards, "… but, you _can't_ be hit."

"When I have no other choice, I can." He muttered, and clasped the hand back over the wound to stem the flow of blood. He looked up, and an odd smile danced around his mouth for a moment. "I… prefer not to be. But I'd rather I be hurt than you be killed."

"Aren't you trying to kidnap me?" She demanded, incredulous confusion plain in her eyes. He nodded dizzily. She shook his unhurt arm, trying to keep him awake. "Then why did you…?"

He grinned, delirious now. "Doesn't kidnapping you make me responsible for you?"

 _"No!"_ She shook him again, but his head fell forwards and he spoke no more.

His hand, dark with fresh blood, dropped from his shoulder and brushed against Daine's skirt. She stared at it, then at him, and then let go of his shoulder so abruptly that he fell backwards in a puff of dust. She stood up, glaring at his prone body and the steady trickle of red that stained the ground, and then made a frustrated noise and folded her arms. Despite still being deeply confused one certain fact occurred to her. She spoke it aloud. The girl's voice held an odd wondering note which, if he had been conscious enough to hear it, the man wouldn't have recognised at all.

"I swear to god, Numair Salmalin, you are the worst kidnapper in the _world."_


	5. Not the Whole Sorry Tale

Perhaps it was the dusty thread that she used to sew the wound back up with, or perhaps it was using all of his magic that had made him weak. Whatever the reason, by the end of their second day together, Daine realised that the man called Numair had moved from unconsciousness into fever. Numair himself wasn't aware of this, because the darkness held him so closely that even his familiar bedroll seemed to grow choking thorns to strangle him.

The desert was too hot, or perhaps it was another storm which had come to claim him, to tear the skin from his flesh and the flesh from his bones. Wherever he writhed away there was nowhere to shelter from the blistering heat. Girls with irises that shone with the coppery-silver bleakness of gun barrels watched him until the world was swamped with a prying horde of deathlike eyes. Then, like a blessing from above, coolness trickled between his lips, and the world seemed less bright and sharp.

The man half opened his burning eyes, and his voice was a parched gasp. "You didn't…. run?"

The world spun too much to see her face, but he recognised the thorns in Daine's voice. "If anything's going to kill you, Numair Salmalin, it had better be me. As if I'd let some pathetic fever steal all the fun!"

Numair half-smiled, feeling the swollen skin of his lips crack and bleed at the movement, and closed his eyes again. His mind couldn't settle on one thought, but it lingered on her face. _She stayed._

"Thank you." He whispered.

He didn't hear her muttered reply, but a cool damp cloth gently dabbed against his mouth, and his raging thirst died down enough to let him sleep.

His shoulder ached abominably, and when the pain dragged him back into wakefulness that was the first word that occurred to him: abominably. He tested it in his mind, liking the collection of syllables and the way the a's were always paired with the b's. Alphabetical order. A sensible way of organising a word, he thought. And now then, wasn't that a word that was more interesting than thinking about the pain? He slowly eased his eyes open and mouthed the word over and over again until the light didn't hurt his eyes, and the pain didn't make him want to crawl back into the dark. Abom. Ably. Abom. Ably.

It was like an incantation, and the nonsense words brought him back to himself. Numair pushed himself upright and found he was lying in his own bedroll, although when he moved the sweet, acrid smell of fever and sweat drifted up from it and made his stomach turn. He was too hot. He drew his legs out of the tangled blankets. He rested his bare feet on the cool stone floor and leaned his forehead on his knees. The loop of his ankle manacle lurked just at the corner of his eye. He moved his gaze sideways a little, and it vanished.

Something made a high-pitched sound, and he looked up in shock at a tiny rodent. It tilted its head to one side, wrinkling the dark stripes which lined its nose, and then darted away. To the man's amusement it ran up the overlarge door and carefully opened a tiny hatch, pulling it shut behind it with an almost-human harrumphing sound.

"That girl has far too many pets." Numair whispered, and coughed as the words stung his dry throat. He couldn't see a pitcher anywhere, but there was a bucket of fresh water shining maddeningly out of reach beside by the fire. He crawled over to it with rubbery arms and legs and skimmed some out with his hands, hoping that the frog wasn't hiding in it. He was too thirsty to care, either way.

"Don't drink too much in one go," Daine let in a bright beam of desert sunlight through the open door behind her. "It'll make your stomach cramp up."

"I know that. I'm not an idiot!" He croaked, and raised another handful of water rather than listen to her retort. To his surprise she didn't rise to the bait. Instead, she knelt beside him and a hand appeared in his vision holding out a tin mug. He took it, smiling his thanks, and saw the bruise that spread vividly across her arm.

"Did I do that?" He asked. She shook her head.

"Emmie helped me drag your useless carcass back home, but she wasn't too happy that I shot you." The explanation made him raise an eyebrow, and Daine gave him a twisted smile. "You have a good and loyal friend, there. Maybe you _should_ use her real name."

He didn't answer, but scooped up more water and drank. His thirst was fierce, and his throat felt like it was burning with more heat than the throbbing wound in his shoulder. Daine frowned and pressed her hand to his forehead. Her fingers were cool against his skin, but felt rough with callouses and dust. When she lowered her hand concern flashed on her face for a brief moment but before he could read it Daine shook off the expression. Serene indifference coloured her voice. "Well, seems you're still too hot. I guess you'll be stayin' another night, then."

"You're being friendly. Why are you being friendly?" He turned clumsily to face her. "You're not friendly."

She shoved at him and then stood up to leave the room. "Go back to sleep, idiot."

She was as charming as ever. Numair decided to obey. It wasn't as if he could stop his eyes from sliding shut, anyway. He barely made it back to his bedroll before sleep claimed him.

When he next awoke it was dark, and the house smelled like baking bread. Daine had cleaned it, he realised when he opened his eyes: the haze of dust had gone, and the stone floor stone on a level with his eyes. The girl was sitting by the fire, nominally keeping an eye on the bread baking on a small metal shelf suspended above it, but in reality playing with the kittens. They squirmed and rolled in her skirted lap, mewing at each other happily and trying out a few clumsy steps before falling back against her encouraging hands.

Numair blinked blearily at them, half-relieved to see that they had lived through the humans' clumsy fight, half-confused that not a single one had been even slightly hurt. Daine was giggling softly and her expression was girlish, soft in the warm firelight. Had she cured them? He couldn't imagine the thorny creature who had shot him having the patience needed to heal anything, but this gentler woman was a complete mystery to him. He couldn't help feeling guiltily voyeuristic, as if he wasn't supposed to see this side of her. It seemed almost rude. He made more noise than he normally would when he pushed himself upright and expected the expression on her face to vanish, but she greeted him with the same warm smile she turned on the cats and said, "Food will be ready soon."

"I'm starving," he told her, and pressed a hand to his stomach when it echoed the sentiment. "How long was I out?"

"Too long." She pulled a face at him, but there was no malice in her words. He relaxed and untangled his feet from the blankets, carefully pulling the leg of his crumpled jeans over the manacle.

"We should start over." Daine said, looking back down at the kittens. "I've been thinking on it a while. Let's be honest for a change! You're not a gunslinger. You're a terrible kidnapper and about as threatening as one of these darlin's." she stroked a tabby-striped kitten affectionately and then looked up. "But you are a powerful mage, and maybe you were even a surveyor…stranger things have happened. But I'm fair sure that's not the whole sorry tale."

"And you're not nearly as dangerous as you pretend to be." He shadowed her frankness, and she smiled at him encouragingly.

"The wanted posters protect me far more than my maze, and the maze far more than my magic." She grinned. "Did you really believe me about killin' all those bounty hunters?"

"You are quite… scary." He risked a smile, and she took the description with good humour. "I guess the animals got to them?"

"Well, not really. They got lost in the maze and there's no water after a time. But once they were weak… the big cats have to eat, just like the little ones. Which reminds me…" She moved a bowl deftly from behind her and held it in her lap, watching the kittens lap at the creamy milk inside with an expression of peaceful happiness. "Most of the time I didn't even know the men were tryin' to find me until after they were dead. The cats told me where they were so I could collect their belongings."

"You robbed their bodies?" He blurted out, and wondered why the thought shocked him more than the rest of the story. Still, he supposed, he didn't have to pretend to be a hardened, merciless figure any more. She looked up at the humanity in his voice and, surprised, laughed. It was a bright, soft ripple of sound.

"Where do you think I got all my guns? From ma? We were homesteaders, not hunters!" She pressed her hand over her curved lips to hide her laughter, but her eyes still shone at him. "Oh, you really did believe me! I didn't believe your act for a second!"

"What gave me away?" He pushed himself closer, wincing at the pain moving made in his shoulder but grateful for the warmth of the fire. The desert night was already getting quite chilly. She shrugged.

"Little things. You kept changing, like a butterfly. Words one minute, threats the next. If you really meant it you would never have slept with your back to a loaded gun." She giggled again at his incredulous expression and then pulled a face. "Oh, alright, I wasn't that quick. Emmie told me, really. She was muttering to herself the whole night about you being too trustin' and having to run away from inns in the middle of the night because someone tried to pick your pocket."

"But you let me kidnap you." He said, and the bizarre phrase started the girl off on another burst of laughter. The sound was contagious, and he found himself laughing at the thought of his horse giving speeches about her master's hapless adventures without him even knowing she could talk.

"Well, you had my gun. And Emmie said you were dangerous but she didn't say how. Besides, with what you said I… I wasn't thinkin' right. I didn't know how serious you were. But because of your pretendin'… I didn't want to kill you if I didn't have to." She turned to the bread and poked it with a fingernail, testing the crust. Her voice grew a little sardonic. "And that was fair stupid of me. Things got a little away from us, didn't they?"

"Are you apologising?" He asked, rubbing the space between his eyes which ached fiercely.

"No." She turned back and although the words were dark, there was no hatred in her eyes. "You would've died painlessly enough. I don't miss. And things would be far simpler if you'd died. It's like you told me." She shrugged and stood up to gather plates. "It's not like we're friends."

"What if you had died?" He pressed, unable to shake off the image of her pressing the barrel of the gun to her chin. She didn't answer, so he carried on: "Won't you tell me what you're so scared of, Daine? What do you think will happen to you if you leave?"

"Food's done." She said shortly. He couldn't make her say another word while she fetched plates, lifted the bread from the shelf with a cloth and dug a crockpot out of the embers.

Daine dished up platefuls of a bland but filling stew. She smiled when Numair thanked her but didn't reply, and they ate their meal in silence. Then a harsh scraping noise made him jump, and the girl jumped up and opened the door.

"Tarja!" She exclaimed in delight, and picked up the thing that had been scratching at the wood. She stumbled a bit as she lifted it, and Numair realised that the odd pallor of her skin was not just from the firelight. She was exhausted. If she hadn't been holding a feral, vicious-looking wildcat he would have struggled to his feet and tried to help her, but she regained her footing quickly and apart from a quick flicker of her eyes towards him she didn't acknowledge her own weakness.

"Haven't you slept?" He demanded, and for the first time the strength in his own voice wasn't an act, but the sincere concern of another human being. She petted the cat absently and he tried again, "Did you stay awake getting me through the fever?"

"Yes," she admitted, "But don't flatter yourself, Numair Salmalin. That's not why I'm tired, if you _must_ be so nosy."

"I'm naturally nosy, and I like to repay my debts." He said seriously. "So if you're sick because of me…"

"What, you want to be a responsible kidnapper again? That worked out so well for you last time, didn't it?" Daine laughed brightly, if a little cruelly, when he reddened and looked away. She walked back to the fire and sank down next to the warmth with a sigh, rubbing her cheek against the feral cat's coarse, dusty fur as if she were another wild creature herself.

"Here they are, Tarja," she said softly into the creature's fur, and kissed the top of her head. "You're fair sweet to offer, and they should be strong enough now, but if you wait until morning then I can give them the first draw of milk before you leave." She tilted her head to one side, catlike herself, and then smiled broadly. "Yes, of course by the fire! I even have a blanket. Just don't be hunting anyone else who's stayin' here, okay? If you're hungry, ask me."

"How do you feed them all?" Numair asked, genuinely curious how she was supporting so many animals when a few miles away people were struggling to scratch a living out of the desert. Daine pooled a spare blanket into a nest by the embers, gently tucking the kittens around the adult cat who curled around them affectionately. Then she leaned back against the fireplace, her eyes drooping with weariness, and her voice was a little nostalgic.

"When I first ran away they were the ones who fed me. They live in the desert, so they know where all the food is. They knew about this place, but before I came here it was full of… of snakes. Rattlesnakes, they were, hiding in the rocks. It was more of a graveyard than an oasis, full of bones and fear. I slowly made it right." She smiled sleepily at the ceiling, and her words grew bitter. "Seems that's all comin' to an end, though, if you're right about the railway."

"I didn't lie about that," he said, and she flashed him a bright, brittle smile.

"I know that. You tug at your nose when you're lyin'. Doesn't mean you can't be wrong, though."

"I'm not." He sighed and then smothered a yawn. "I stole… _saw_ … the plans."

"Hm." She shut her eyes, dark lashes forming crescents against her cheeks. After a few minutes she opened her eyes again, and there was a clear decisiveness in them when she said, "Tarja's taking the kittens. She lost her own litter. Hawk, it was, a few days ago. She still has a little milk left. They'll be fine with her."

"That's… that's good." He managed, wondering why she was telling him. She rolled her eyes at his apparently slowness and then said, very deliberately.

 _"So,_ if you're feeling better, we can leave first thing tomorrow."

"You want to leave?" He gasped, barely able to keep up with the way her mind flitted from choice to choice.

She scowled at him, eyes suddenly dark with the strange mixture of defensiveness, anger and terror that had made her attack him the day before.

"No, I _don't._ I want to _sleep."_ She snapped.

She hauled herself away from the fire with a huge effort to roll herself up in her bed. As her eyes fought to stay open she heard heard the man settle back down into his own bedroll, sighing in pain and weariness. She paused, reeling with tiredness, only to take the shotgun from the wall where it had been leaning and, as before, deliberately set it on the floor like a barrier.

"You've been usin' y'r gift, and you'll be so deeply asleep you wouldn't be able t'aim straight even if I _did_ try something." Numair pointed out, slurring the words in his own exhaustion but irritated enough at the distrustful, offensive implication that he had to say something. She turned her back to him and her voice was petulant as it echoed off the wall.

"It's a shotgun, dolt. Accuracy isn't needful. Don't think I won't shoot you again just because I dragged you home."

"Go 'sleep, l'il mage-g'rl. Heh, _magel't._ Why _did_ you use y'r magic?" His vague question was mumbled, almost asleep, and when the girl rolled onto one shoulder to look at him he was already fast asleep, sprawled untidily on the floor half way between the fire and his bedroll.

Daine watched him, and wondered how quickly he would turn on her once he knew how venomous her magic could be. Her fingers brushed against the gun again and she shivered. She couldn't fall asleep until she had pushed the cold steel out of reach.

Daine dreamed… of snakes.


	6. Undulating Undertakings

Most people are afraid of snakes.

Daine had never understood that. She had always tried to explain: _For every venomous one there are dozens of sleepy slitherers, and besides – well, if you stay still and calm, they aren't likely to attack you._

Most people ignored her.

As a child she would play in the dust outside the homestead with two or three of the tiny creatures coiling around her arms. Her ma would scream if she saw them, and then they would panic and hiss and dart away. But they would always return and bask in the sun with her from the morning until it set. Despite her ma's warnings she never came to any harm.

But Daine didn't dream about being a child. Not often. Her dreams were usually taken up with later days, when she was older and the snakes had learned to ignore the scent of blood that clung to her every month. It was the one thing they did which was against their natures. Usually, the coppery scent would send them hunting in mindless, feral rage. But for some reason they could accept that this human, already too large to swallow, was not to be hunted. Daine was old enough to be curious about their uncanny way of thinking by then, but she was so comfortable with the snakes that it never occurred to her to challenge them.

What did Daine dream about? The days were long and hot and drier than a preacher's wit. There hadn't been much rain that year, and the dust was so fine you could breathe it in and blow it out like smoke. Her grandda had smoked; even in the hottest evenings the porch reeked of tobacco. She had seen the dim red light at the end of his pipe on that evening, when she had looked back at her home from the top of the rise. It looked serene with the sod walls fossilised into parched reddish flesh by the drought. Without the glowing ember and the light from the window you might have thought it was a part of the plain.

Daine missed the grass. She wondered when the rain would come back. She wondered how long it would take to barter with the traders at the outpost. She wondered if they would have any news from the world outside. She didn't wonder if she would see her family again. She thought she knew.

She dreamed of the outpost. In her dream it was busier than it had ever been in real life, with the dust disturbed by hooves and boots and the air ringing with the sounds of steps. Cloud's ears had flicked back and forth at the sound, disliking the clink of the sharp piercing spurs. Daine had reached forward and hushed her, petting her mane like a normal person would instead of speaking. It was hard to see, hard to breathe, and by the time she had bartered for meal and grits and beans both Daine and the pony were hot and tired.

"What do you think, shall we have a rest?" Daine had asked, her voice playful enough that passers-by would assume she was thinking aloud. Cloud snorted and nodded – about time! – and they had traipsed through the outpost towards the river.

It was cooler there, but humid. Someone had set up a ramshackle tent and was selling fried beans, bread and liquor. They settled by the water, and Cloud pulled up mouthfuls of stringy grass while Daine laid back and stared up at the canopy of brownish leaves.

"I miss the rain," she murmured aloud, and laid her hand over her eyes to shut out the slanting glare of the sun. "I think the clouds have forgotten we're here, we're so far away from anything."

Someone laughed, and she lowered her hand to see a young man grinning at her. His eyes were very blue, or perhaps he was just so suntanned and dusty that they looked over-bright.

"Not for long, little missy!" He guffawed, and gestured with his spoon towards the empty plains. "Soon you'll be able to take a daytrip to the seaside, easy as you like, and bring them clouds back with you!"

"Don't tease me." She muttered, covering her eyes again and waving her free hand dismissively. "Go and shout your drunken nonsense at someone else, if it's all the same."

"I ain't drunk." He told her, and belched loudly. "Not unless these beans are so old they've actually fermented."

She raised herself onto one arm and looked at him, raising an eyebrow. He looked rather smug, giving out his stories with the air of a man granting wishes. Daine snorted and folded her arms, hearing Cloud's echoing snort as the pony listened in.

Her voice was scathing, but also the tiniest bit wistful. "Not drunk? Then are you mad? Jaunts to the seaside! I've never even seen the sea."

"Well, you will. Soon as the railways comes through, that goes all the way back to the waves. I seen 'em myself."

That _did_ interest her. Even in her dream Daine remembered the thrill of strange adventure that raced through her stomach. It was the first time she'd heard of the railway, and it seemed like some mystical creature to her naïve ears. A great dragon of steel and iron, belching smoke and steam as it flew across the plains. She'd never been further from her homestead than this outpost. The outside world was made up of stories, not pistons or rails or vast crashing waves. The man had seen her reaction and grinned, but before she could ask any questions someone shouted for him. He tipped his hat at her in half-mocking politeness and scrambled to his feet.

Who was he? The man was nobody – Daine never saw him again – and yet he always crept into her dreams with those bright blue eyes and that same smug smile. He captivated her waking thoughts on that day, too, as she began the long hot trudge back home. Cloud complained about the weight of the sacks she was carrying, but stopped after a few hours when she realised Daine wasn't listening. The girl's ears were full of the crash of imaginary waves and the roar of mechanical dragons. Perhaps Daine remembered it so clearly as her last happy memory. The last few hours of her childhood, of a thirteen-year-old girl who dreamed of the beautiful world beyond her own parched existence.

Perhaps. It never mattered to the dreams why they showed her these things. They just _were_. They never changed. They couldn't. The next few hours were burned into her mind like light onto an exposed camera slide.

She reached the homestead after dark. The darkness saved her life. That, and the snakes. They flowed over the dust towards her like rippling water, and tangled around her ankles hissing frantically at her. Cloud stomped and reared until they left a respectful space around her, but still they gathered around the human's ankles until she could barely see her own feet.

"What's wrong?" She gasped, finally dragged from her daydream into the cold night air. The snakes didn't answer in words but in emotions: fear, anger, intruders, fear, pain, blood, _fear…_

"Stop!" She cried, pressing her hands over her ears. "Not all at once! It hurts!"

 _Yes, hurts…_ they agreed as one. _Pain… fear… blood… hurtsssss…_

And she could feel it with them, as if her ears were growing as keen as the snakes': the tremors in the ground as the horse-hooves thudded towards her land, the tearing sense of intruders in the valley, the thick scent of fear in the air and finally, finally she was close enough and she could hear…

"Daine!"

She gasped and threw her hands forward, lashing out blindly at the noise. It was too loud, and so much closer than it should have been. The bandits weren't at the homestead yet. They couldn't be, because first her grandda had stood his ground on the porch with the shotgun raised, and she had heard the dull roar as it had fired into the air, and then a horse was screaming, and then…

"Wake up!" The voice said again, and she felt something touch her shoulder. It was a light touch, but she shrieked and sat bolt upright, feeling dizzy as her sleep-addled mind tried to make sense of the real world.

"I.. I…!" She gasped, staring around blindly, and then she wrenched her eyes opened and glared with every groggy ounce of strength she could muster. "Get… 'way fr'm… me!"

"I'm sorry!" The man held his hands up in mute surrender and backed away. His eyes were huge in the wine-coloured dawn light. "You… you were having a… a nightmare."

"Yeah? Well, I have nightmares." She snapped, and then a surge of anger ran through her. She picked up a pillow and threw it at him, suddenly furious. It missed. "I told you not to touch me! I _said!"_

"You were crying." He said, and picked up the misaimed missile carefully. "I thought…"

"You thought _wrong!"_ She clenched her hands into fists so he wouldn't be able to see how much they were shaking, and lay down on her side, turning her back to him. Only one or two tears escaped from her eyes before she stubbornly made herself stop. She was sure that he would think she had simply fallen back asleep.

"I'm sorry." He said again, and she couldn't see his face to understand the odd note his voice held. There was a gust of fresh air as he pushed the door open. "I'll… I'll go check on the cows, alright?"

She didn't answer, and after a moment she heard the door click shut behind him. As soon as he was gone she sat upright and tore at her sleeves, pulling them up to see the soft skin on the inside of her elbows. It was there, as she thought it would be. It was always the first place to turn. Red stripes banded across her arms like a vicious rash. The black and yellow still lurked beneath her skin and she sighed, relieved at least about that. Still, she had to touch the red stripes, and she shuddered at the feeling of the rough, scaly skin.

"It's not so bad," she whispered, and pulled her sleeves down guiltily. She repeated the words over and over again, like a mantra, until she almost believed them. It could be worse. It had been worse.

"Stop shivering, girl. Learn to live with it. It's not like it's going to get any better," Daine muttered tetchily to herself, and stood up. If her legs felt rubbery under her then it was probably to do with healing the kittens, not to do with… with anything else. She sighed, scratched her nose fitfully, and then went to pack. She decided it would be a good idea to take clothes with long sleeves.

"Long sleeves in the middle of summer? I'm going to bake!" She rolled her eyes and glared at the door. "I knew I should've shot him."


	7. Cracks in the Mask

_"You_ wear it."

Daine folded her arms and glared at the offending article, her chin set in a stubborn line. Numair sighed, his usual patience once again tested to the limit. Still, he was fed up. It had been weeks now that they'd had to camp out in the open plains, waking up with their mouths filled with dust and their eyes sore. He may have lost other arguments with the girl because of her mule-headed stubbornness, but this time -this time - he refused to back down.

"What do you think the Millay Murderer looks like, Daine?" He demanded in a tense voice. She narrowed her eyes at the nickname but didn't answer, so once again he offered the bundle of clothes to her. "If you don't look like a gun-toting Calamity-Jane-Daine then we might actually be able to pass through a single town without someone asking the wrong damn questions!"

"Oh, and looking like a… a…" she grabbed a flounced skirt and shook it furiously, "A whore would be better, would it?"

They were arguing more loudly than they should have been, but they had camped far enough away from the trail that no-one was likely to hear them. Numair had left the camp before dawn to traipse to the nearest town, buying supplies and trying to work out what the rumours were about the railway.

Daine had woken up in a fairly good mood. She had been missing fresh food since they had left her home a month before, and the man had promised to bring back eggs and fresh bread if there was any going. Her good mood had soured rather rapidly when she'd seen what else he had bought from the sleepy-eyed traders.

"Believe it or not, there were no other clothes. Who would they sell them to? What respectable women have you seen out here?" Numair said. "Even the homesteaders don't want anything to do with the mining camps. But no-one would look at you twice if…"

"If I was a prostitute? It's not their _lookin'_ that worries me, you idiot! Why should I degrade myself? You could… I dunno, you could say I was your wife." She started kicking dust over the embers of last night's fire. He opened his mouth to make some snide comment and she quickly cut across him: "Or your daughter, then. You're more than old enough."

"I wouldn't bring my wife _or_ my daughter to a place like this." He said, stung. She laughed mockingly.

"If I can't be Miss Millay Murderer, then you can't be Mr. Numair Salmalin either. What you would do in real life is…" she blew a handful of dust at him, "Whoosh! Gone!"

"Not my daughter, then. I'm not as old as all that." He said, relenting slightly – or perhaps simply giving up. Daine could never tell. She didn't really care enough to work out his odd moods, as long as she usually got her own way. Or, at least, as long as she thought she was getting her own way. She smiled crookedly and looked her companion up and down.

"Maybe not, but you sure don't look like my brother, nor any relation I'd ever lay claim to. I guess I'll be takin' on a new surname, then."

Numair shrugged returned her smile a little wanly. "Even if you are going to be my wife you'll have to be a little notorious. I really don't think many women would dare to come this far west."

"I can manage that. I just need to think up a story." She grinned mischievously, her anger chased away by playfulness. "Perhaps I'm just madly in love with you."

He laughed loudly at that and started sorting through his supplies. "Daine, if you can convince anyone of _that_ then you should be making your living on the stage."

"Sometimes I swear I already am." She muttered, and picked up the clothes. Wincing at some of the more offending items, she sorted through them and found a reasonably unfrilly petticoat, a striped bodice and settled for a skirt that was only disquietingly lurid rather than outright scandalous. She couldn't find a blouse, though, just some worrying lacy camis. "None of these have long sleeves."

"No?" Numair had started packing up the supplies onto Emmie and was not paying her any attention now he had his way. Daine rolled her eyes and bundled up the rest of the clothes, then saw a pair of tattered, lacy fingerless gloves fall out of the pile.

"Well, needs must…" she picked them up out of the dirt. He looked up at exactly the wrong moment, and smiled snidely.

"If you don't want to look like a prostitute…" he started, looking pointedly at the gloves. She glowered and brushed the dust off them.

"Maybe _you_ want to sunburn the skin from your ancient flesh, Numair Salmalin, but some of us have more _sense."_ She raised her chin proudly and sauntered off behind an outcrop of rocks to change.

Numair watched her go, and only smiled when she was safely hidden. A month ago the sharp words might have irritated him, but he knew her a little better now. Her insults weren't meant to strike home, but were the spikes she used with anyone to keep them at arm's length. He'd gotten used to that, and respected her need for space. He didn't quite understand why she needed her thorns, mind, but he didn't fault her for having them.

It seemed impossible, but even after a month in each other's company the two outlaws still knew nothing about each other. Keeping up an act for weeks was a hard task for both of them, though, and as the cracks began to appear in their masks, so too did their tempers begin to fray. Numair was keenly looking forward to being able to stay in a town, and part of that was the thought of spending a few hours talking to other- (normal-, he thought pettily) people and exchanging jokes rather than insults.

Besides, the next town was important.

Unlike the small ramshackle settlements they'd traipsed past as they crossed the desert, the next stop was actually an established town. It even had a bank, although it had been a few years since Numair had been there, so it might have come to an unfortunate end by now. The reason he was eager to stay there for more than a few hours was because the town also held a certain modest brick building, neatly tucked into the shade of the first mountain, with dull metal letters nailed above the door:

CART HAK RAIL COMPANY

The last time Numair had seen the building he'd been dragged out of it, chained by the ankle to other men who already knew the songs to swing a pickaxe to. He remembered the snide smile on the face of the short, thin-lipped clerk as he'd watched them through the exhaustingly well-polished window.

Yes, Numair was looking forward to seeing that building again. He patted Emmie happily on the shoulder and dodged away when the horse skilfully aimed a nip at him.

They both stared up, eyes wide, as the scream rang out across the plain.

It was close, too close to be anyone other than… "Daine!" Numair whispered, and then darted forward. He was near the rock she'd walked around to change, the horses close behind, when a solid silhouette sauntered around the lee.

"Not so fast there, hero." The massive man drawled, and the toothpick in his mouth flicked out and down, pointing towards the six-shooter he held in one plate-sized hand.

On his other side, whimpering and twisting against his unmovable fingers, was Daine.

"Don't try anythin'." The man said lazily. "I've got yer woman and I've got a spare bullet or two, I reckon. Enough to make you regret any smart moves you might make, I'd say."

Numair took a half step forward before he even thought about it, and stopped short when the giant raised his gun and pointed it at Daine's temple. The man's eyes were completely merciless and utterly serious. The mage slowly sank down to the ground, kneeling in the dust and thinking frantically of things he might do.

"You just stay there, then." The man guffawed loudly and lowered the gun a little. "Good dog, ain't'cha?"

Daine had obviously been ambushed when she was half-dressed, because she was in a petticoat and her gun was nowhere to be seen. She struggled against the giant who held her but he didn't even have to move to make her fighting useless. She flailed rather than fought, and her unskilled blows seemed pitiful. Even when she tried to kick her attacker her legs tangled in the fabric of the skirt, and she tripped against him.

"Stand up straight." He growled, not looking down. Daine regained her balance with an effort, and then sniffled loudly. Huge tears grew in her eyes, and she stared at the meaty hand that held her bare wrist with an expression of anguish.

"Oh please mister, please let me go!" She sobbed, and clutched at him with her free hand. "Please, I don't want to die, mister! I'm only eighteen! I don't want to die!"

"Stop puling." He glared at her for a second, and in the very moment that he looked away both of the horses moved. When the giant looked up again they stopped their deliberate steps and looked like normal, mindless creatures again.

 _She's faking._ Numair suddenly understood, and hoped his eyes didn't show his surprise as he stared at the snivelling woman. The giant was deceived, and even Numair had almost been fooled by the illusion: without a gun, Daine was weak and pathetic – or that was how she appeared.

She was pulling back on the giant's hand like a petulant toddler, refusing to move her feet and walk forward. He strode towards Emmie with a greedy look in his eye, seeing her bulging saddle-bags, but Daine was definitely slowing him down.

"You can't take our stuff, mister! That's our food! We'll _starve,_ mister! Ain't you never been hungry? We got nothin' for you to steal, mister!"

"Then how'd you buy yer precious food, miss?" He retorted, his voice scathingly sardonic. She paled and he shook her, prompting another mindless wail of fear. Rolling his eyes, he glared up at Numair. "You! Beanpole! Where's the cash?"

"isn't it in there?" Numair asked, pointing at the first bag. When the man looked into the leather pack Cloud moved carefully closer, and Numair saw Emmie looking at the giant with a calculating expression lurking in her baleful eye.

 _It's going to take more than a few nips to bring down that monster._ Numair thought.

"He's lying! It's in Cloud's pack!" Daine sniffed and pointed and whimpered. "Now let me _go!"_

The man glanced up automatically and that was when the pony struck, kicking out wildly with her hind legs. One caught the man a glancing blow across the cheek, and he bellowed and reeled away.

"Oh my god, she kicked you!" Daine shrieked, sounding panicked. "Should I have said somethin'? Warned you? Normally she's so sweet…" She grabbed at him, and that was when the strange thing happened.

One moment the giant was reeling away, cursing and clutching at his face with the hand that had held the girl. In his panic it didn't seem to register with him that the girl he had held hostage seemed too worried about him, grabbing at his hands even when he'd released her. .

Numair saw, though, and was bewildered. He watched in numb confusion as the girl reached up. Tears were still drying on her cheeks but her face was suddenly completely calm, completely empty, as she reached up and gently touched the man's swollen cheek. A line of blood ran down his jaw from the broken skin, and she tenderly followed it up to a livid split on his cheekbone.

"No-one threatens me." She whispered, and it sounded more like a hiss than words. _"No-one."_

The man forced his swelling eyes to open and stared at her wildly. His hands constricted around his gun, but pain made his fingers tremble and the weapon fell to the ground. Daine didn't even glance down. Her grey eyes were as cold and dead as stone.

The man met her eyes, and his mouth opened in a silent scream. He gasped in a rattling breath and hurled himself away from her gentle touch, but by now he was shaking so much that his legs couldn't hold him. He fell to the ground in a great crash and thrashed in the dust, still screaming silently, his eyes still wide with pure terror. Blood and saliva frothed from his mouth and moistened the dust.

"What's happening to him?" Numair gasped, his own voice hoarse. Daine looked up, and for a moment the man could think of nothing more inhuman than the indifferent glassy sheen of her eyes.

"He's dying." She said. Her voice matched her gaze. Cold. Dead. Unfeeling. She didn't look down at the man who was now twitching on the ground.

She didn't look back at Numair again.

She raised her bare hands to her face and started laughing. It was a feral, wild scream of sound, and her icy expression seemed to burst into flames of pure, wild mania.

Then, gasping in a final shuddering sob of sound, she collapsed to the ground beside the man she had killed, and lay still in the drying filth of his blood.


	8. Make a Name For Yourself

Daine wasn't unconscious for long. Numair had barely begun to dig a shallow grave in the powdery dust when her eyes fluttered open and she groaned. Pressing cold fingertips to her aching forehead, she sat up and looked around.

The dead man still lay beside her, his face almost black now. The spilled blood was a distant memory of life, clotting the dust into grotesque pebbles rather than pooling on the ground. Daine stared at the corpse blankly for a moment and then shrugged and raised herself to her feet.

"I didn't touch you." Numair said quickly, seeing that she was awake. He was breathless from his digging and his voice was a little odd. Daine bit back a laugh and dusted off her legs, feeling unusually clumsy and awkward under his piercing gaze.

"I know that." Her voice sounded sharper than she meant it to, and she couldn't meet his eyes when she explained how she knew: "You're still alive."

"I didn't know if you were _alive."_ He replied in a pale, distant kind of voice. "But I didn't touch you."

"Well, it's fair nice to know that you care." Daine called Cloud over to her silently and hesitantly touched the pony's velvety nose, thanking her for her help. When the horse snorted derisively and stepped closer she threw her arms around her neck and buried her face in Cloud's mane, clutching her hair in shaking hands.

 _Are you alright?_ Cloud asked. Daine shook her head slightly against her side, and the horse sighed. _I thought not._

"Are you alright?" Numair asked. Daine was silent. After a few moments she heard him going back to his digging, and then she heard the slow gritty sound of the man's body being dragged across the dust. Numair was breathing heavily with the effort – the bandit was almost twice his size. Daine wiped her eyes fitfully and looked up.

"Go through his pockets first." She said. Numair looked disgusted by the thought, and she risked a small smile. "No, really. He was going to rob us. Seems only fair we return the favour."

"Was he going to kill us?" Numair asked, and the way he said it made it sound like a conversational question rather than an accusation. Still, the barb hit home. Unusually, Daine didn't snap back a sharp retort. Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper, and she looked away from the body.

"Yes." She said, "Yes, he was."

"You can't know that."

"No." She looked away, and then suddenly met his eyes. Her grey orbs were raw, pleading. "But I have to believe it. Otherwise I… what I just did…"

"Don't." Numair shrugged callously and knelt down, sorting through the dead man's pockets with squeamish hands. "I don't want to hear it, Daine. Don't think you have to act like killing people is traumatic for you. I came to this desert to find a murderer, not a saint. I guess it's nice to know I found the right person."

His words hurt, and Daine flinched away from the bluntness of them. She scratched at her hands fitfully and then realised the rough skin had nothing to do with sunburn or a bite. Yellow bands had joined the red and looped up her arms as far as she could see. She suddenly realised that she was wearing nothing but a petticoat, and that the lurid marks would be as obvious to the man as they were to her. She resisted the urge to hide her hands behind her back.

"Aren't you going to… to ask about it?" she almost pleaded with him. "If I explained, you might…"

 _Might what? Forgive me? Understand me? Talk to me like a person again…?_ Her thoughts jeered, mocking her. She was blushing from them before he even looked up at her. Numair's expression was more weary than anything else, and he met her eyes with a directness she'd never seen before.

"When you want to tell me, then I'll ask." He told her. "But don't tell me little bits of it. Tell me all of it, or don't tell me anything." He stood up, fiddling with the pocket book he'd just drawn from the bandit's greatcoat, and added. "And tell me after I've had a proper meal. Seems like you have a lot of explaining to do."

"Yes." She said dumbly, and rubbed at her hands again as he looked through the leather wallet. He noticed the nervous habit and for the first time a small glimmer of empathy crept into his expression. He handed her the pocket book.

"You were right." He said. "He didn't need to rob us. He wasn't a desperate man. What you did was frankly terrifying, but… you weren't wrong to do it."

He walked away before Daine could ask what he meant, and she frowned and opened the wallet. The huge wad of money surprised her, but what made her draw a sharp breath was the scrap of paper brazenly shoved into the first fold. It was a small scrap torn from a newspaper, the ink smudged and running into the weave of the paper, but still legible. The words wanted, murder and bounty shouted up at her, and from one edge a crude sketch of the face of the dead man grinned at her, boastful and proud.

"He was a…" she whispered, and then started laughing hysterically. "Numair, do you think we could collect this bounty?"

"Unless we want to collect our own, too, then I would say not." He raised an eyebrow at her and started dragging the corpse back towards the grave. "Besides, I don't see you volunteering to cut his head off and drag it around as proof."

"I could…" she started, and he winced.

"Yes, you probably would do that, wouldn't you?" He looked down at the man one last time and then shrugged and started shoving dirt over the body with his shoe. "We don't need the money, Daine. Let the desert have him."

"No…" Daine breathed, but she wasn't arguing. She had pulled the wad of bills from the pocket book and was counting them, her eyes huge. "There's a fortune here. Why did he try and rob us? I could live like a queen on this for the rest of my life!"

"Robbing people is fun?" The man suggested, and then kicked a few stones onto the corpse for good measure. He blinked and looked up. "Are they large bills, Daine?"

"Uhm…" she stuck out her tongue as she searched through them, and then she nodded.

"Well then, it's hard to live off large bills. People get suspicious. If you try to survive out here with too much you're in as much trouble as you would be with too little."

Daine tucked the pocket book into Cloud's saddle bag, but she glanced around in surprise at his words. What might have been a vague thought from someone else had a grain of experience weighting it down in his voice.

"Is that what happened to _you?"_ she demanded, realising that it would answer a few puzzles of her own. He flushed, as if he'd said too much.

"Come on," he said, evading the question to catch Emmie's reigns in one dusty hand. "Get dressed and let's go. I can almost hear a hot bath calling for me."

They reached the outskirts of the town by mid-afternoon, joining other dust-stained, weary travellers as the trails joined roads, and the houses grew more frequent. The men who trudged the road were scrawny, thick ropes of muscles clinging to half-starved flesh as they made their way from one town to another looking for work. Some of them had the look of old prospectors, some might have come West with dreams of oil or gold to nurture them, but now they were hungry and tired and wanted nothing more than a plate of food and a place to lay their heads.

"They're coming to work the railroad." Numair said softly, seeing the curious way Daine was looking at them. She raised an eyebrow at him but didn't answer, and he sighed and settled back into his saddle. "They won't do well here. The foreman knows it's cheaper to grab prisoners and migrants than this lot, and far less trouble if they're worked to death."

"He sounds lovely." Daine muttered, pulling Cloud's head back as she reached out, bored, and tried to lift a worker's cap from his greasy head. Numair glanced sidelong at her.

"It's just how things are done out here. He's no worse than anyone else, really. If he doesn't turn a good profit then they'll be laid off in droves, and then no-one's any better off. He used to say…" He stopped talking and shut his mouth with a snap, seeing that she'd picked up on the slip with a quickness that was almost impressive.

"Don't fret. I already knew you weren't a surveyor." Daine said simply. After that she was quiet.

The throng of dust-stained travellers soon turned into a crowd as they reached the town proper. The street was a blur of people, rushing about their business like ants in a dry, dusty hill. The ground was torn to shreds by hooves and cartwheels, and the air was ripe with the stink of men and beasts. Numair seemed to know where they were headed and Daine was relieved about that. The chaos was so absolute that if she were left alone she was sure that she would just freeze, standing stock-still in the middle of the thoroughfare until someone ran her down.

There were very few women, she noticed. Numair had been right about that. There was the occasional flash of a skirt or trill of a fake laugh, but no trading homesteaders or stolid wives. This did not seem to be the sort of place where a family might want to visit, for all that it was a rare metropolis in the middle of a desert. This was a town that had struck gold at the start of the rush and had grown around the claimants, drawing in prospectors like moths and reshaping them into carpenters and farriers and traders until communities had grown around them. And in the middle of it, looming over the other buildings like a temple to the machine-age gods, the bank and rail outpost rose like a medieval tower.

Daine had been alone for so long that the crowd terrified her. She was relieved when Numair led them down a side street and the press gave up a little. He gestured for her to dismount, and they led the horses into a surprisingly well-kept stable. The hotel they had chosen was, it seemed, rather more impressive than the usual bawdy-house rooms.

"We might as well stay here," Numair said quietly as their eyes adjusted to the dark. "It's not like we're struggling for money, now, and the other hotel is… well…"

"Rooms you can rent by the hour?" She finished, and sighed at his expression. "Really, you're far more squeamish than you've any right to be out here. People'll know that you're…"

"Can I help?"

The voice was high, pitched to be recognisable and utterly subservient. Daine closed her mouth quickly and looked around, suddenly aware of how uncomfortable and exposed she felt in the pinching corset and the ridiculously flounced skirt.

"We'd like to stay here." She said, careful to make sure her voice didn't waver as she tugged her gloves higher up her arms. "My husband and I. And we'd like to eat. We've travelled a long way and we're hungry and fair tired."

The man looked them up and down. His smile never faded, and he said. "Of course, ma'am. May I enquire after the… more per-coonary matters?"

"We can pay." Numair said quietly, seeing Daine's baffled look. "And you mean 'pecuniary', sir."

"I do indeed, I do indeed! And a fine gentleman you must be! Honoured it is that I am that you've decided to stay at my humble residence!" The man said, speaking so rapidly that beads of sweat erupted from above his eyebrows. He dabbed at them with a silk handkerchief and beckoned to the pair. "Come, come!"

"Our horses." Daine said, and then looked at Numair. "Our _things."_

"Safe! Safe! I have one room left, fine room it is too ma'am, and your bags'll be there and waitin' for you after you've broken your fast…"

"And after you've looked through them?" She added, only half joking. He looked horrified at the idea, but more sweat pooled guiltily on his cheeks.

"I'm sure he wouldn't, dearest." Numair said, with just a hint of a warning in his voice. He looked up at the other man. "I apologise, sir. We've been staying at some rather… disreputable places. My wife is speaking from sad experience, and not from suspicion."

"Damn right I've got experience." She muttered, but softly enough that only Numair could hear her. She smiled sweetly at the innkeeper and nodded, her face the picture of apologetic naivety. "Can I check on my pony later, sir? I do like to wish her goodnight. I sure she won't sleep a wink if I don't!"

Cloud snorted loudly behind her, and then ducked her head away. It was as if she were a human trying to cover a laugh. The innkeeper smiled knowingly at Numair and then his smile became greasier as he returned it to the woman.

"Of course, petal. She'll be well taken care of for you, I promise! Nothing but the best here for man and for beast… and for women, of course, ma'am." He ducked his head in an awkward bow and gestured back towards some steps. "If you'll follow me?"

The promised meal, it turned out, was still raw when they found the main hall with its ramshackle collection of tables, desks and trays spread thinly among a dizzying range of chairs. Numair sank into one chair with a sigh of comfort, stretching out his long legs so far in front of him that Daine had to step over his ankles to reach her own seat.

"Just one room?" She whispered.

He didn't open his eyes. "It'll be bigger than your house."

She gave up on that topic and curled up in her seat, uncomfortable on the prickly down cushion which felt like it was full of the poor duck's beak as well as its feathers. "What're we doing here?"

"Resting."

"You know what I mean."

"Waiting for dinner." He amended, and then opened one eye. His voice grew softer. "That man will be listening in somehow. We can talk later. For now, I am very happy to just sit quietly where there's no dust and no animals and wait for a meal I didn't have to kill or dig out of the dirt, and look forward a bath that's not in a freezing river. It'll remind me of better times."

"Back when you were rich?" She asked. He closed his eye again and huffed deeply.

"Before I met _you._ Stop prying."

The meal, when it arrived, was simple but good. The hotel owner scorned the usual fare of beans and bread, and had prepared a mutton stew with dumplings which steamed gently when he set it down. Numair thanked him profusely, tucking into his portion like a man dying of hunger. Daine looked at her share more demurely, and before she picked up her spoon she stopped the owner and asked, "Is there a seamstress in this town?"

"What were you requirin'?" He returned, eyeing her getup with an eye that clearly said how much he disapproved. Daine smiled and gestured to herself, making her eyes wide and guileless.

"This is fine for travelling in, but we were thinking of staying here for a while and… well, I wouldn't want to walk around your hotel dressed like this. What will people think? Nathan bought these clothes at an outpost you see, but, frankly, he's a bit of an idiot."

Numair had his mouth full. He narrowed his eyes at her but said nothing. Daine wondered if he was more stricken by his new name or by the insult and resisted an urge to giggle. She looked up at the nodding innkeeper. He gave her the name and address of a seamstress, and then offered to summon the needlewoman to the hotel in the morning. Daine smiled and agreed, and then dunked her bread in her stew when the man left.

 _Nathan?_ Numair mouthed at her, pulling a face. She grinned but said nothing.

"Does that mean I get to choose your name?" He whispered when he'd finished eating. Daine shrugged absently, still chewing on a rough edge of bread. "How about Sarah?" He asked.

She froze, almost choking on her half-chewed food before she remembered to swallow. Sarah. It wasn't Sarra, but it was close enough to send a small jolt up her spine. Numair saw her turn pale and unconsciously reached out for her hand, hissing between his teeth in self-conscious realisation when she yanked it away.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." he said, and sounded genuinely remorseful, "I thought you might like it. I didn't think that it was…"

"Be quiet." She managed to whisper, and he bit his tongue. She blinked at the table for a moment, and then pushed her food away. For a long moment she stared at the worn, scuffed surface of the wooden table, and then she smiled thinly and looked up.

"I do like it." She said, "After all, I mustn't forget where I came from."

"If you'd rather choose another…" he looked stricken at causing her hurt, and his hands twitched as if he wanted to reach out to her again. She shook her head vehemently and then smiled self-mockingly. It was a gentle, genuine smile, and it was clear she didn't know she was doing it any more than she knew that in her upset state of mind she was breathing more rapidly than usual.

Numair was taken aback at the reaction. Along with her odd vulnerability when she had killed the bandit, he felt like today he was meeting an entirely different person. One who was deeply insecure, but who would never own to it. One who he almost wanted to protect, rather than mocking her for her thorns.

He remembered the way she'd smiled at the kittens in front of her fireplace, and suddenly thought: _This is the real Daine. This is what she looks like when she thinks no-one can see her._

She was shaking her head at his suggestion, waving aside the idea of choosing another name. "No… no. It was just a shock, that's all. I really do like it. I just wasn't expecting you to say that." She pulled a face suddenly and then her spikes were back, sharp but too flustered to draw blood. "Don't you have the sense of an infant, Nu… Nathan? I swear animals are more human than you are, sometimes. And, you know, the thing with living with animals is they tend to only talk about food and fighting and… and they may be feral and wild, but none of them would ever have said anything like that to me."

"Dear god," he rubbed his face with his hands, looking agitated. "I said I was sorry! Hell, I even _meant_ it! Look, it's difficult enough to navigate a conversation with you when you _don't_ have a reason to hate me, but now…"

"I don't hate you." She interrupted him with sudden strength in her voice. She'd been dwelling on a single thought since the stripes had appeared on her arms, but the name he had chosen had decided her once and for all. She was angry, and her anger gave her the rush of strength she knew she'd need to tell him the truth. Every painful, accusing word of it. Everything she'd spent the last years desperately trying to forget. "I want to tell you everything. You've had your meal, right? Let's go and talk."


	9. The Truth, The Half Truth

There were four men in the Millay Gang, Daine told Numair in a soft, flat kind of voice. She knew their names. She knew their faces. She knew their scent. Until Numair had brought the dust storm to her home and told her his own sorry tale she had been convinced that there had been only four. Rick, Bobby, Miguel and Clint. Just the four of them. The fifth… the man in the golden waistcoat…

 _Ozorne,_ Numair prompted her gently. She shrugged.

_He wasn't one of them. He didn't kill anyone._

_He killed all of them. _The man's voice was hard, merciless. _Without his blessing they wouldn't have even been in the valley. He sent them to you._

 _No,_ she replied in a tone that was more bitter than any other word she had ever forced past her lips. _He didn't send them to me. He sent them to mama._

It had been a simple business proposition, that was all. Sarra had welcomed the men into her kitchen and they had sat comfortably at the table, boots stacked neatly by the door as they sipped stale coffee and made idle jokes. Their hands had wandered towards the open window shutters as they spoke – Daine remembered seeing the fingertips flashing as their rings caught the sunlight. She sat outside and counted the hands she saw to the snake that casually ringed one of her wrists. Four, Five, Seven….

 _Who's the little girl?_ They asked, seeing her curious gaze and waving at her in a friendly way. Sarra gave the same pleasant answer she always did – _My daughter. Her father's a mountain man, off trappin' these few months now, but he'll be back any day._

'Any day' had meant thirteen years so far, although Daine had long since given up counting the passing months. She knew her mother told the lie to keep interested men at bay, and she wasn't too hurt by it. There were very few people to whisper scandals to each other out here. The men had nodded pleasantly to her, and when she shyly ducked away she heard their laughter. It was a nice sound.

They asked, very nicely, if they could buy the land.

Sarra said no.

They asked, a little less nicely, _why not?_

 _One day my husband will come home,_ Sarra made her voice light, joking, _And he'll be a little shocked if I've not got his supper fixed._

 _There are other places to fix supper._ They said, and this time there was no niceness in their voices at all.

Daine had to stop listening then, because her grandfather was beckoning her over with a handful of coins at the ready and a list of goods for her to collect from the market. She hesitated, not quite sure about leaving when the men were speaking so strangely to her ma, but grandda lit his pipe with steady hands and his eyes were even.

 _Scoot, troublemaker._ He said. Those were the last words Daine ever heard him say.

When she came back and the house was in ruins she didn't go in. Not yet, at any rate. There was still a light at the window, and the shadows moved against the drawn curtains, and she could hear her mother sobbing, and she understood some of what had happened. The rest… the rest the snakes told her.

 _The snakes?_ Numair asked, and then he frowned. _Daine, you missed out a whole section of the story! What did you come back to? What happened to your home? And… how did the snakes say anything?_

_It's hard enough to remember as it is. >She snapped. Goosebumps ran up her arms, and she stopped herself from rubbing at them with the thought of the dry scales which her fingertips would inevitably feel. Her voice grew harsher, and her eyes blazed. _Yes, the snakes told me. They told me that an old human man was lying dead on the porch before I saw my grandda with his brains shot out, and they told me that the men who had done it were still there before I ran in and they killed me, too.__

__You said your mother was still alive._ Numair said after a very long silence._

__Yes._ Daine's voice grew very quiet very quickly. _They didn't kill her. They took their time. I knew… I figured out… that they were going to kill all of us and just take our land after they were told it wasn't for sale. So it was only a matter of time, but… but… they took their time. My mother was very beautiful. They… they…__

__Stop. I understand._ Numair's voice was gentle. _What did you do?__

__They came out one by one,_ she answered coldly, _and I killed them.__

__That's only half the truth,_ he retorted, _You promised to tell me all of it. If you're not going to do that, then…__

__Fine._ Her voice grew a little less stubborn but a lot more angry, and then she sighed out her fury in a rush. _I'll tell you. Just… give me a moment to think of how to…__

_….how to describe the way she had lain in the grass for such a long time that her legs went quite numb under her. The snakes coiled over her in a writhing blanket, warming her in the cooling night air, but she barely noticed. She watched the house and listened to her mother's sobs growing weaker and stayed completely still._

_The first man came out of the house after a few hours, stretching and grinning in the moonlight as he pulled strands of tobacco from one pocket and started stuffing them into a pipe. By then Daine couldn't feel her legs at all, and her skin seemed as cold as the night itself. She hissed between her teeth at the happy expression on his face, but when the light from the window caught the gouges on his cheek she felt such eclipsing pain that the noise turned into a whimper. They were nail marks. Her mother had clawed at this man. Her mother, who still sobbed and fought against the other three men in the ruins of her beloved home._

_Daine had crept forward, and the dust hissed under her skin as if her flesh had turned to stone. The man had stared around, eyes widening at the odd noise, but he had barely had enough time to scream before the snakes descended. Like a wall of slithering water they flowed over him, strangling and biting and writhing over his last rattling breath._

__Then you didn't kill him._ Numair sounded surprised. _The snakes did it. They might have done it for you, but it wasn't you who killed him.__

__The second man…_ (Daine glared at Numair, and he was silent) _… had time to scream. The third… the third had time to be heard. They both died the same way. But the fourth…__

_…the fourth man had time to prepare. He'd heard the screams of two of his friends, and the unmistakable sound of their rattling deaths. The snakes were excited by then, so feral and wild that they were hissing and attacking each other as much as the twitching bodies. Even a very stupid man would have known that they were snakes… and the fourth man wasn't stupid._

_He came out of the house with his gun raised. That wouldn't have protected him, but in his other hand he held a log that he'd just snatched up from the fire. The end of it blazed and spat sparks into the dust, and some of the wild-grass caught alight. The snakes scattered. The sudden heat and light brought blind panic into their already overwrought minds, and they couldn't understand it. Despite whatever madness had made them stay and fight for the human, they could no longer stay. They scattered, and Daine was left alone._

_She crept forward, still hidden. The man looked around with narrowed eyes and saw the crumpled bodies of his friends. Their faces were black and twisted in poisoned pain. The man looked at them blankly, as if they were strangers rather than the men that he'd ridden in with. He spat absently into a flaring patch of grass, and then turned around with deliberate slowness. He rested the blazing log against the wall of the homestead, whispered a few words of magic, and slow blue flames started licking up the sides of the earthen walls._

_"No…!" Daine squeaked, and rushed forward despite herself. Her ma was still alive and she was still inside, and for all the girl knew she was too hurt to do anything but burn to death in the blaze._

_"Ah," said the man, looking around with cold patience. "The girl. I wondered if it was you." And he raised the gun to point it at her chest._

_Daine gasped and collapsed to the ground, her legs rubbery under her, and although she tried to cry out strongly her words still only sounded like a strangled hiss of air. "My mama!" She cried, "Please, don't…"_

_He hauled her to her feet and his eyes were just as icy as his voice had been. He shoved her up against the wall of the house, barely conscious of the flames which licked up the next wall and across part of the roof as he pressed the cold steel of the gun barrel against her chin._

_"Did _you_ kill my gang, you little bitch?" He asked._

_"Yes," she stared at him, wondering if death would hurt. She felt such hatred for this man that she was barely even afraid of dying any more. At the thought something inside her seemed to curl up, and her legs buckled under her. Her flesh felt like ice, even with the fire burning so close. She hated him. She hated him. And with each breath she felt more fury. She gritted her teeth and glared at him. "Yes. They died slow, you disgusting bastard."_

_"Wrong answer." He spat in her face and then struck her with the barrel of the gun. For a moment Daine thought she'd been shot, until her mind cleared and she realised that she'd crashed to the ground. She knew that the dust was coarse under her ice-cold fingertips, and that she should raise her hands from the ground and fight, should push away the man who tore at her clothes with coarse fingers, should claw at him to stop him from shoving her legs apart, but by then it was too late and the fire was burning one side of her face and his rancid breath rasped on the other side. By then it was too late to do anything at all._

_When she raised her hands the firelight danced over them and made them glow in front of her eyes like they were tiger-striped. She threw her head back and sobbed. Blindly, she clawed at the man with broken fingernails, and when that didn't stop him she shoved at him with her hands, with her arms, with any part of herself that wasn't screaming in pain._

_And then…_

__God, Daine, stop telling me._ Numair cut across the words which poured out of her like tears, _I don't want to hear this…__

__You don't want to hear it? I didn't want to feel it. I didn't want to live it._ Daine forced the man to meet her unflinching gaze. _Why should you get any more choice than I did?__

__I'm so, so sorry, Daine._ He covered his face with one hand, completely unable to look at her, and when she laughed scornfully he flinched. ___

__You're sorry? Why are you sorry? Because you're the first person I've told about this? Because you're a man? You didn't rape me. Your apology means less than nothing to me, Numair Salmalin. You can keep it. It's not like a single stupid word ever made a difference to men like that._ _

__Your arms grew the stripes?_ He managed, still sounding as if he was going to be sick. She nodded fiercely, and he drew a shuddering breath. _So… so… he died like the man this morning?__

__No._ _

__But… I thought you said the stripes appeared because he…_ _

__They did._ Daine interrupted, and then made a futile gesture with one hand. _My arms went red and yellow and black and then I saw that he had let go of his gun to hold me down, so I picked it up and I shot him.__

__You shot him? But if you can kill people by…_ _

__I didn't know that then. I didn't know any of it. I didn't have time to think. I saw the gun and I shot him. I just wanted him to stop hurting me._ Daine's words were so flat that Numair shuddered. She looked up and shrugged away his discomfort, knowing that the worst part of her story was still to come and that her icy mask would shatter long before his would._

_She began shakily, _I shoved him off me and I ran into the homestead. I found my mother.__

_Sarra lay curled up in a corner by the hearth, her dress a bloody rag around her, and she breathed raspily in the smoke-filled air. Daine shrieked breathlessly and caught at her mother, beating out the small flames which had just begun to lick at the woman's skin. Sarra had been a luminous beauty, but now her flesh was marred with bruises and burns and she rolled over to see her daughter with eyes that were nearly swollen shut._

_"Daine?" She whispered, and her eyes filled with tears as she saw her daughter's torn dress. "Oh, darling…"_

_"Not now, mama." Daine had managed. She couldn't think about what had happened. She had to be strong. She had to be brave. She started dragging the Sarra out of the burning building. To her relief her mother didn't weight a lot, and she slid easily over the stone floor, but Daine could barely breathe in the smoke. She sobbed as she hauled Sarra over the threshold, relief and terror eclipsing in her mind as they struggled out into the darkness and back towards the bloody mess of the men who had attacked them._

_"Your… grandda…?" Sarra asked, her voice a croak. Daine shook her head tearfully and then pressed her cheek to her mother's. Sarra looped her arms around her daughter's back and they sobbed together._

_"I'm not badly hurt," Sarra whispered after a while, still clinging to Daine. "I'll try to sit up in a moment, darling, and then we'll try to make it to Yewvale on the horses. They hadn't gotten to them, not yet. After they shot at da they came right back. He was so brave, darling. He faced them down with that old shotgun and he wouldn't back away, and… and…"_

__Wait._ Numair said, _I thought your mother was killed? They found her body. Are you telling me she survived the fire?__

_Daine barely heard him. She was so caught up in her story she couldn't hear his words, and she certainly didn't know there was a tear slowly creeping down her cheek._

_"He was so brave." Sarra said, and she smiled shakily. "And so were you. So are you. I'm so glad you're alive, my love."_

_"Ma…" Daine lifted the tattered sleeves of her mother's dress and saw the painful looking lacerations that crossed her skin. She touched them gently, seeing that the woman was trying to hide her pain to let them run away sooner. The girl made her voice far calmer than she felt. "We can wait, ma. You're hurt. And they're all dead. They won't hurt us again. We can wait."_

_She had walked unsteadily to the narrow well that her grandfather had dug before she was born, and drawn up half a bucket of water. Any more than that made her arms tremble unbearably, and Daine knew that if she started crying now she would never be able to stop. She stared into the dark rippling water for a long moment, watching her suddenly marred reflection. She heard her mother's laboured cough and the dark crackle of the burning house. She felt the slow trickle of blood down her thigh and the icy crawling of her mutated skin. She remembered how peaceful the market had been. Se bitterly wondered how much more of her life might be torn apart tonight._

_An odd sound made her whirl around. Her mother was curled up, hands clutching futilely at her neck as she choked. Daine ran to her, grabbing at her hands as if it would help. "Ma!" She cried, "What is it? What…?"_

_Sarra cried out in agony as her daughter's hands closed around her lacerated wrists. Daine recoiled in horror as lurid, blood-red lines blossomed from each cut that her hands had touched and started weaving towards the woman's heart. Like the dark swelling of an infection that poisons the blood, every red line bulged and twisted under the woman's flesh as she writhed in pain. Afraid to touch her again, Daine hung back with wide eyes and could do nothing except watch her mother curl up in blood-curdling pain._

_Sarra screamed, choked on a ghastly rattle of blood and saliva and vomit, and was still._

_Daine fell to her knees, terrified to touch the woman, and the lurid stripes on her arms blazed at her as accusingly as the blood on Sarra's lips. She looked up and through the haze of disbelief and sorrow she suddenly thought she saw the shape of another person. A man. His waistcoat was so bright that it caught the rising sun, and she wondered for a feverish moment if he were an angel come to take her mother home. Then his face twisted in a sneer and he disappeared into the horizon._


	10. The Ass and the Ox

How much of the rest of it could he guess? How much was true?

He could see the girl clearly in his mind as she stumbled into the next town. A thirteen year old child, her clothes torn and bloodied, babbling wildly about the men who had attacked her home. He could just picture the townsfolks' reactions.

He heard their question – what happened to these men, then? How did you survive? – and he heard Daine's clumsy lies. She couldn't tell them the truth. She didn't know what the truth was. She was the one who had killed Sarra, and not the bandits. She was the one who had killed all of the men. They had shot one man dead. The child had slaughtered four.

She was hardly innocent.

No matter why she had done it and regardless of how the men had died, Daine couldn't string together a single honest sentence that wouldn't point straight back to her as the killer. So she lied, of course she did. And because she was still a child before those years of cynical dust had weathered her heart into stone, Numair knew that she lied badly.

The townsfolk didn't know that, but they saw the powder burns on Daine's hands and the dark bloodstains that had been slowly drying on her dress since she had spilled her rapist's brains into the dust.

They hadn't believed a word of her story.

(Besides, the man in the golden waistcoat had ridden through here just this morning, and hadn't he said how he had seen the homestead, and how everything was fine? Such a pretty house, he'd said, with all the neatly sown herbs in front of the porch. Would've stopped, but I didn't want to intrude…)

They asked questions, and made jokes, and shoved at each other in careless callousness. The little girl was nearly hysterical by the time one of the more well-meaning ladies had wrapped a shawl around her shaking shoulders and led her, gently but sternly, to the sheriff's lodge. There was no place safer, they said to her, and then to each other they muttered: _And she can bloody well stay there until the marshal gets here._

They sent out riders to the girl's homestead to see what had happened.

By the time they returned the sheriff was dead. He lay twisted and crumpled against the table, and the girl was shrieking silently, her eyes wide and flat as she stared at him. She looked like someone caught up in a nightmare from which they could not escape.

 _That's how the Millay Gang died._ The riders said, looking accusingly from the corpse to the girl. _And that's how her mother looked._

 _They were snakebit!_ Daine sobbed uselessly into their deaf ears.

"What really happened to the sheriff?" Numair interrupted her, desperate to know the answer. Daine's description was almost worse than the man's imagination, because there was a vulnerable note in her voice which made the way she'd offhandedly mentioned his death before seem so much more heart-breaking.

"He was kind. He gave me a glass of water and said everything was going to be fine. His fingers touched mine when I gave the glass back. He died."

"When you threatened me, at your home," Numair persisted, "I thought you were scared of me. But you weren't, were you? You were scared _for_ me."

Daine ignored that and looked at her hands, turning them over and narrowing her eyes at the banded marks. Her voice was very small when she finally spoke.

"If I touch someone and they have the smallest cut or graze there then it's like they got bitten by a rattler. In minutes… even seconds… they…" She shuddered and then looked up at him, smiling crookedly. "You've seen what happens. I don't think you would want that to happen to you."

"But you let it happen to all the other people who came into the maze." He worked out. She looked away, shrugging. He persisted, "And you did touch me. You sewed up my gunshot wound."

"That's why you got a fever, genius." She finished curtly. Sighing, she lowered her hands. "Look. I don't know how it works or anything. Not proper knowing. I s'pose I could if I experimented, but… well, you can see how going around testing this is not the best idea."

"Okay," he said slowly, "So what do you know about it?"

Daine counted off on her fingers, "I know it only works on humans. The more upset I am, the darker my stripes get and the stronger the poison is. When I touched you back at my home the stripes weren't even visible. You still got sick, though. I tried to hold the needle with a cloth but it kept slipping."

He laughed suddenly, explosively. "I think we've just found the main difference between us! I would have been tearing through thousands of books trying to find ways to tame my magic. Meanwhile, you worked out you could control it simply by wearing gloves."

"It's not magic." She corrected him. "It's poison."

"It is magic." Numair cut his eyes up at her, and when he saw that she had been completely serious he looked taken aback. "You thought it was… was you? Daine, that's the stupidest thing I ever heard! What's more likely? A strange kind of magic, or some kind of… of poisonous skin mutation in humans?"

She was silent, and the man's bemused expression turned to a kind of stricken horror. Words poured out of him unbidden as he finally understood exactly why she'd hidden away from the world for so many years.

"You really thought it was you? That you… you would be stuck like that forever? Unable to… to touch anyone, or to safely be around other people, or… even to get _angry_ without risking someone's life?"

"It is me. I killed my own mother. I killed so many innocent people in the town when I… when I ran away." She whispered, and her eyes filled with tears. "I changed into a monster on that day and now I don't deserve to turn back."

"Sure." he said curtly. "That's exactly how the real world works, Daine. People are cursed for no damned reason and then they have to spend the rest of their lives thinking they're supposed to be alone and miserable."

"Oh, you can just go hang." She spat, suddenly furious. "You said you wanted to hear the truth, and that was all of it. I don't give a horse's ass for your thoughts. When we've finished whatever the hell you dragged me to this town for I'll go right back to being alone and miserable. That's my choice whatever you have to say and however many railway companies are after me. You don't know my life, Numair Salmalin, and you don't have any right to tell me I'm living it wrong."

"But you _are_ wrong. No-one else is going to say it." His voice was hurt and the words came out sounding cruel. "There isn't a single person in the world who cares about you, and if you keep lying to yourself like this then there never _will_ be."

She froze, and for a second she stared at him.

"No." She said, and he could hear the shattered sharpness of broken glass in the single word. "You're right. Not a single one."

Before he could correct his stupidly phrased words, she turned on her heel and stormed out to the stables. The door slammed behind her. Numair cursed under his breath and cradled his head in his hands.

"Not a single other person, Numair, you idiot." He muttered. "Why do you always say the wrong thing?"

He knew why, though. He didn't have to ask. He had only been interested in Daine's story because he needed an explanation of how she had killed the bandit, but the more he found out about the girl the more he found himself wanting to help her.

It was, frankly, an irritating idea. It would complicate things.

It wouldn't be right to interfere in her life. She didn't want him to, and their tense relationship was built on such practical matters that he couldn't even say 'good morning' without Daine asking him what the hell he wanted. But the more she had told him tonight, the more he had realised that her entire life had been frozen around things that had happened to her because of Ozorne's greed and the casual brutality of the men he hired.

Numair hadn't expected the Millay Murderer's encounter with Ozorne to be anywhere near as horrifying as his own. In truth, he had expected her to be a skilled criminal who had gotten caught in the wake of another gang. He had pictured parting with such a person easily. He could no longer imagine a day with Daine when they wished each other a careless good-riddance and parted ways forever.

He knew, with a pang of sick dread, that he couldn't let her return to her old, deluded life at all. He would never forgive himself.

He decided that he had to help her, whether she liked it or not.

And he groaned aloud, because he knew that she would fight that decision every step of the way.

888

Daine had walked into the hotel the night before dressed in ill-fitting mismatched clothes. Sarah, the imaginary woman who strode confidently into the thoroughfare the next morning, was dressed smartly. Her russet dress neatly curved around her slight frame. The dressmaker had promised to deliver several properly tailored dresses over the next few days, but in the meantime she had pinned a shop dress to fit the new corset Daine had bought from her. She had even found a matching hat, complete with a dark veil which protected the girl's grey eyes and brown hair from the dust, and effectively disguised her face. The dressmaker hadn't mentioned the second part, but Daine had noticed straight away. She accepted the ridiculously fashionable creation with a wide smile, and handed over more money than she had ever dreamed of without a second thought. It was just paper, and since Numair would have buried it with the bandit she felt a self-righteous glee at spending it alone.

When she made it out into the street Daine scowled as a passing breeze lifted up the wide straw hat brim. She yanked the hatpin out of her hastily piled-up hair, refastened the hat in a more secure but unintentionally jaunty way and strolled onwards. Her new anonymity gave her the confidence to push through the crowded streets, and from behind the veil the town didn't seem nearly as threatening.

She had some more of the money carefully stowed away inside her bodice but no real plan to spend it. Daine simply wanted to explore the town. It was the largest place she had ever been to, although of course she would never admit as much to Numair.

Despite the man's careful façade Daine had easily worked out that he must have spent some years in the big cities, mixing with high society and speaking with that obnoxious cultured accent. The few scant miles that had been Daine's childhood world must seem laughable to a man like that. She raised her nose in the air, irritated at the mocking Numair whom she had created inside her own daydream, and scoffed scornfully as her dislike of the real Numair also grew.

That morning she had tried to sneak out of the room and meet the seamstress before the man awoke, but to her annoyance the lanky idiot had sat down for breakfast almost as early as she had. When he sat down she ignored him, so he took a bite of toast and tonelessly said around a mouthful of crumbs, "Good morning, Sarah."

She harrumphed into her porridge and took another spoonful, heaping as much of the slop onto the wooden spoon as possible to finish the meal quicker. He laughed without any humour at all.

"Is that how you say 'good morning' in horse-talk?" He gibed. She flinched and looked around the room, seeing it was deserted as the hotel owner pandered to an early customer.

"Why don't you try it and find out?" She hissed back. "Seems like the only person who would waste their time giving you the time of day is Emmie, and you deserve every single one of her little love-bites." And with that she shoved her chair back so violently that it toppled over, clattered her half-empty bowl into the dirty basket and left. The rapidly souring victory had tasted bitter as it curdled in her stomach.

The streets were full of people, but it was the voices of the animals that made Daine's head spin. They called out to each other more loudly than any of the drunken men who bellowed across the street. Horses swore at the slower mules and the mules mocked the dogs who ran underfoot. The dogs ignored their words and hooves with equal skill, focused on the sharp-nosed rats who writhed under the walkway's floorboards and jeered at them. The birds seemed to stay out of it, or rather they lurked in the eaves of the shadier buildings and egged on whichever species they found most entertaining at the time.

Daine was used to the friendlier chaos of her own home, where she had spent years patiently teaching the animals to respect each other and keep their predator-prey battles far away from her ears. For the most part her friends had obeyed her. Those who didn't were persuaded with a little more magic bearing down on them, or simply sent away. Here, in the rancid air of the bustling town, the animals were so used to being hot and tired and sick and bored and beaten that they had little love left in them. They gibed at each other with good-natured hatred and saved their worst curses for the humans who left them slaving in the sun for hours.

"Move yer lazy ass, you grease-faced maggot!" Someone bellowed, and it took Daine a few moments to process that she'd heard the words with her ears, not her mind. She frowned, looking around for whoever had shouted, and saw a small crowd beside an alley. Gathering up her long skirts, Daine pushed her way across the road and craned her neck curiously around the people.

"Sorry!" Someone shouted back in a high voice. They sounded on the verge of tears. "Sorry!"

Some of the people laughed cruelly, and the first shouter raised his voice. "Is that the only word you know?"

"Sorry!" This time there were tears in the voice. Daine bit her lip and pushed forward to see what everyone was so worked up about.

A Chinese woman was crouched on the ground in the middle of the road, her tight brown skirt stained with dust and dirt as she pulled on a rein. On the other end of the rope was a large ox who was lying down, legs tucked under his vast body and an obstinate leer on his bovine face. As much as the woman tried to pull the ox forward it refused to budge from where it was blocking the road. The woman had tears streaming down her face and her long braid was so tangled that long strands of black hair were sticking to her cheeks. For every ineffectual effort or stumbling apology the crowd hurled more abuse at her.

"Leave her alone!" Daine burst out, rounding on the crowd of jeering people. "Don't you know how hard it is to get an ox to move?"

The shouter stared at her impassively, shifting tobacco from one cheek to another. "Shouldn't be here in the first place. Ain't no place for slitty-eyed cows."

 _"Or_ their animals." Someone else cut in, and grinned around the group with the kind of grin that told everyone how hilarious he thought he was being. No-one laughed.

"We should kill it, cut it up a bit, that'd clear the road." The shouter's mouth twisted. "Anyone got a saw?"

"No." Daine planted her hands on her hips and glared at him, obstinately putting herself in between him and the alley. "It's not your ox, and it's not your business, and you don't have any reason to go down this road and not the next one over if you so chose. Go and bully someone else who's smaller than you."

"Like you?" He sneered, leaning closer. She laughed shortly and took a step back, tugging her long sleeves over her hands. He smirked at the apparently defensive move and shrugged.

"Tell yer what, little lady, I'll go and fetch the law. How's that sound? If they get here and see the road's blocked then I'm sure you'll agree that it's their business."

"The law?" Daine echoed, the first hint of nervousness in her voice. He heard it and grinned, then turned on his heel and left. A few of the crowd followed him, but several stayed waiting for the show.

"He won' move!" The woman sobbed, and Daine flinched as a hand touched her shoulder. "Lady, he _won'…"_

"He will." Daine said shortly, and pulled away from the woman's hand. Smiling reassuringly to mask the insulting movement, she knelt beside the ox's head. He glowered at her, and then his eyes widened as she fixed her mind on a single command and pushed it into his obstinate head. Bellowing, he raised himself to all fours so quickly that several people in the crowd cried out and stepped back.

"Well, whaddeya know." Daine announced to the gathered people with an expression of surprise. Some of them laughed, most of them already losing interest and drifting away. Daine was wondering whether she should do the same when she looked around and saw that the other woman was shaking so badly she could barely breathe. "Oh. Where were you going?" She asked awkwardly. The woman pointed.

As they walked Daine worked out from the other woman's hesitant English that she had been taking the ox to one of the town's vets, hoping that he could cure the creature's odd habit of shaking his head to one side when he was supposed to be pulling a plough. The vet had refused to come to the woman's farm, sneering at the idea of associating with migrants. When she had gotten into the town the men had descended on her, and the shy woman had cowered so much from their insults that the ox had gotten spooked and found a place out of the sun to lie down.

"Well," Daine said eventually, "I… I can…"

"You're a vet?" The woman squeaked, and pressed her hands over her mouth. The girl sighed and nodded, thinking it was a safer lie than trying to explain the truth. She handed the rope to the girl and stopped the ox, holding his massive head between her hands and checking him for injuries or dark patches in his eyes which might betray a brain-bleed. When she saw nothing badly wrong she hauled his head around to look in his ears.

"He has mites," she said, smiling with relief at finding a simple answer. "Look – see, here?" And when the other woman peered curiously into the ox's leathered ear she explained how to make a poultice to treat them. "He can't itch at them like we might, you see, so he shakes his head. He's probably started going fair crazy with them too, right?"

"He now more angry." The woman agreed, nodding. She pointed over the next rise. "My home – there. You want to come?"

Daine gaped at the coil of smoke and looked back the way they'd come. The town was a distant speck of newly-lit gaslamps on the horizon. She hadn't realised they'd walked so far, nor that they had taken the whole day to get here.

Numair will be worried. She thought, and then bit back a sour laugh. Let him worry. I hope he thinks I've left for good.

"Thank you," she said out loud. "I'd like that."

The woman's smile broadened and she ducked her head in something close to a bow. "I Zhao."

"Daine." The girl hesitated and then ducked her own head down. Zhao laughed and suddenly looked several years younger as her defensive mask fell away.

"Look funny when you do it." She explained, and they both grinned at each other.

They tied the ox to a stout tree and as soon as Zhao pushed the door open they were overcome by a wash of noise and warmth. The single room was lit by a cheerful fire which blazed over the faces of all the people inside. Daine had barely begun to count them all when a hush descended and she realised they were all staring at her. She blushed and looked at her feet, hearing the bright line of incomprehensible words as Zhao rapidly explained what had happened at the town to the people who must be her family. One by one they relaxed, looking at the intruder less accusingly but still with reserve.

"Yer sure you really cured our ox, lady?" A little voice piped up, and Daine blinked at the little boy who was speaking to her. His words were brash, confident, and held a definite western twang.

"Yes," she said, smiling. "Well, I found out what was wrong. He'll be fair set to rights in a week or so."

"O-oh." The child drew it out in a long note and then turned to look at a wrinkle-faced woman who sat closest to the fire. He rattled off his own string of Cantonese and the matriarch finally smiled. She replied in a soft voice, stood up, and both Zhao and her brother grinned.

"She say sit down." Zhao prompted, watching his grandmother walk to the other room.

"She's gon feed you." The boy added, and his sister pulled a face at his exaggerated accent. He smirked back at her and slapped his knee mockingly. "You best be re-eal hungry, l'il lady!"

"Yimou spend all time in town watching men." Zhao looked embarrassed as she explained. "He call them cowboys. We think they're…. ah, drunk, stupid, loud…"

"But neat." Yimou finished, and jumped up from his stool by the fire. His voice grew a lot less exaggerated and his mocking smile became friendly. "Here lady, you sit here."

"Tha… thank you." Daine squeezed through the group carefully. "You don't have to feed me, honestly. I didn't help you for that and I… I know food is hard to come by on a homestead."

"But you're a guest." Zhao looked a little appalled.

"You're being rude, lady. Our food ain't contagious, you know." Yimou pulled a face, and then broke down laughing at how mortified Daine looked at the implication. Zhao scowled and slapped him lightly.

"Sorry." Daine whispered, and looked up. "I'm not a guest very often. I think I lost all my manners."

"I'll teach ya!"

"No, very bad idea to learn manners from him." Zhao smirked at the expression on Yimou's face and then turned back to Daine. Her expression was frankly curious. "So, how you learn to be vet?"

Daine thought up a story quickly, and started telling it in hesitant sentences. By the time she had grown bolder and started to describe her own farm the grandmother had returned with steaming bowls of food. By the time they shared out the portions everyone was chattering merrily to each other and laughing as they chewed through filling mouthfuls. It felt more like a home and a family than anything Daine could remember since her own home had been burned, and she adored every moment of it. She only realised time had passed when she found her eyes drooping shut, and saw that the sky outside the window was quite, quite dark.

"I have to go," she blustered, standing up. Zhao pursed her lips, looking out of the window with equal surprise.

"No, you stay tonight." She insisted, catching Daine's sleeve. The girl flinched and resisted the impulse to drag herself away, reminding herself that even if the girl touched her hand it was covered by the cotton gloves the seamstress had given her.

"My friend will be worried," she explained, realising that as much as she was angry with Numair she didn't like the idea of him spending a sleepless night thinking she'd abandoned him. "He'll be angry if I don't come home."

"He? You husband?" Zhao asked. Daine blushed, thought for a split second, and then nodded. The other woman persisted, "He'll be angry?"

"I said he was my husband." Daine said snidely. "I never said he wasn't an ass."

"More worried if walking home at night. Many hours to town." Zhao said with some finality. "Tomorrow I will walk and apologise with you for the worrying."

"Ma's already made up a bed." Yimou cut across, looking sleepy. "She'll be offended, lady. You sure don't want my ma getting annoyed with you."

"Stay." Another woman cut in, smiling and nodding. Daine blinked at her, feeling her heart swell at the woman's shy use of English when she'd barely even spoken two words in her own language all evening.

 _Why not stay?_ She thought. _These people are lovely, and it's not like he'll do anything so important in a single day that I can't miss it..._

"Thank you," she said, and smiled gratefully around at the family. "I will."


	11. Skysong

They were about a mile away from the town when Zhao started dragging her feet. Daine looked around at her but she wasn't surprised at the expression on the other girl's face. After the way the townsfolk had been yelling at her the day before a deep unease was painted onto every gesture Zhao made.

"It's alright," Daine said. "I can find my way from here."

"But I said I apologise to your man." The other girl fiddled with the end of her braid uneasily. Yimou had been running ahead with a long branch, whisking the trail against spiders and scorpions, but when he saw that his sister had stopped he came running back.

"Awww, Zhao!" He groaned, seeing the decision on her face. "After we've walked so far?"

"Maybe… maybe in a few days." The girl replied, and looked hesitantly up at Daine. "If you want?"

If I'm still here. Daine thought, but she nodded. It was worth the small amount of guilt the lie gave her to see her new friend's face light up. Something in her chest seemed to be made heavy by the sight, and she realised that she would miss the warm companionship of this girl she'd only known for a few hours. Compared to the cold, business-like way Numair acted, Zhao's stilted friendship was like sunshine.

"I'm sorry for the way they treat you," she blurted out. "Please don't let it… keep you away."

Yimou made a snorting noise and shook his head, but Zhao only shrugged awkwardly. When Daine made as if to keep walking the woman reached out and grabbed her glove wrist.

"Wait!" She said, and closed her eyes. Her lips moved as if she were practicing a speech she'd memorised, and then she held out a small packet. "My grandma she say you to have this. For thanks, from all of us… but also for yourself. She say it protect you from you hunting shadows."

"Shadows?" Daine echoed, and her eyes widened. Had the old woman recognised her? Did she know that last night they had sheltered a wanted criminal? She took the packet in a blind, flustered whirl and managed to babble some kind of nonsense reply. Zhao smiled and nodded her head in a bow. Then she took her brother's protesting hand and turned around, heading back home.

Daine frowned and looked at the packet. It was wrapped in a scrap of red cloth which felt thick and dimpled under her calloused fingers. When she unwrapped it she nearly dropped the thing that fell out of it, scrambling for it before it could disappear into the soft dust underfoot.

It was greenish. No… when it caught the sunlight it was green. The rich, watery green of young grass by a river. A kind of green that spoke of life and water. She was so captivated by the colour and the heavy weight of the thing that it took her a few moments to actually process that it was a necklace. A thin metal chain ran through a loop in the green stone… no, not a loop. It was a claw, curved around a serpentine tail and outstretched in the same snarl as the intricately carved reptilian face.

She held it up against the light. _Dragon._ The sky seemed to sing through the stone until the clouds danced across its carved surface.

888

Numair opened his eyes, groaned loudly, and reached up to tug his hat over his eyes. His clumsy fingers met nothing but greasy, dishevelled hair, and he cursed again.

"Bit bright for you, is it?" A voice said, and he thought that they were being so loud and sharp on purpose to spite him. He cracked one eye open to size up the speaker and this time his swearing was much more vehement. Of course she was torturing him on purpose. It was Daine.

"N't… y'r… b'ssn'ss…" he managed, missing every single vowel in his desperate attempt to reach the end of the sentence without vomiting. The curly-haired cow in the stupid hat leaned closer and sniffed loudly near his ear.

"Thought so." She said in a voice full of smug disgust. "Drunk as a skunk."

"N't…!"

"No wonder they locked you up in the sot's cell!"

"''m _n't…!"_

"And I had to find this out from the innkeeper!" she almost yelled the last part, and the man clapped his hands over his ears and rolled away from her. That was another bad move. They'd laid him out on a thin wooden bench, and there was only so far a man could roll before gravity took the inevitable course to its painful conclusion.

"I'm so sorry about this." He heard Daine saying as he pushed himself up onto his knees. "Here's a little extra on that there bail you asked for, sir, as a promise he'll not be playin' this trick again."

"Don't s'pose you'll let him out of your sight for a few weeks, eh ma'am?" A second, male voice guffawed. Daine didn't reply for a moment, but Numair felt strong gloved fingers pressing against his elbow and then he was being hauled upright. He leaned against her a little giddily, wondering how the hell someone so little could be so strong. And loud, come to think of it. He shook his head groggily and pressed sweating fingertips to one temple.

"Well," Daine said, half to him and half to the jailor, "I'll be keepin' a close eye on him 'til he's sobered up some, at least." Her voice softened a little, and she smiled at the lawman. "Know anywhere that sells good coffee, mister?"

Ten minutes later, a slightly more awake Numair cradled a bitter-smelling cup of coffee in one hand and tried to resist the urge to press the cool milk-jug to his forehead. People were already looking at him strangely, and the hotel was the kind of place that had china cups rather than tin. It would probably not welcome such an uncouth act.

"What happened?" Daine demanded almost as soon as she'd set the coffee pot down. Numair winced across the table at her.

"Can you not… have pity on me for five… ow! Ten minutes?"

"I _could,_ but the iron's gone from your leg, you see. If the sheriff has it then we'd better scarper before this pot of coffee gets any colder."

"He doesn't have it." Numair kicked his ankle back against his chair and smiled a little at how light the leg felt after months of having it encased in iron. "I know a smith here, and he…"

"Oh. That's alright then." Daine cut across him flatly and then sipped her coffee. "They know you're a drunken idiot, but not a chain ganger."

"You must have been worried." The man said without thinking about who exactly he was saying it to. Her shoulders tensed, but he didn't notice. The milk-jug had proved too alluring, and he reached out and picked it up. "With me vanishing all night, I mean."

"I barely noticed." Did he imagine it, or was there a strange defensive note in her voice? His head hurt too much to challenge her either way. He pressed the jug to his head and sighed, feeling the first relief from what promised to be a very drawn-out headache. Certain things in the world were too loud, and they all clamoured at his skull until it throbbed. He chose one in particular and glared at it.

"Your hat is too bright."

"And you could've bought another bottle of whisky for what I paid for it." She returned fire.

"Well, you… your… your spikes are too sharp." He stumbled, and then put down the jug and picked up his coffee. She gaped at him, halfway between anger and laughter.

"My _spikes?"_

"Cactus spikes." He traced an aura around her with one finger as he took a deep gulp of coffee. "When you're being angry-but-not I think, Daine's a cactus today. All spikes. Hiding what's on the inside. Emotions, feelings… I dunno, nutrient supplies…? It's a strained analogy."

"Hm." She made a noncommittal sound and eyed him levelly, trying to ignore the slight heat in her cheeks. "Are you still drunk?"

"Again with the spikes Miss Cactus! And why were you drunk, my beloved husband? Eh? Why don't you ask me that?"

"I did." She said dryly. "You begged me for ten minutes of pity. So I'm lookin' at you thinking: yeah, that's pretty pitiful alright."

"Then I'll tell you." He scowled and looked into the depths of the coffee pot, and then held it out to her. "….right after you get some more coffee."

"Get it yourself."

"I'm busy being pitiable over here."

"I'd hardly keep a skilled man from his trade." She snapped, and yanked the pot out of his grip.

By the time she returned with a new pot of coffee Numair had stretched his long arms across the table and was snoring gently into a puddle of milk. Daine thought about slamming the jug down on his outstretched hand for a moment, and then thought better of it. Smiling sweetly at one of the men who tended the hotel, she asked if he would assist her suddenly unwell husband to their room.

The man grinned and slung the skinny man over his shoulder like a sack of meal.

This time when Numair awoke the world was softer. The sun had set, which helped, and the room was lit by a single candle which was gently soothing his headache back into sobriety. He couldn't see for a moment; the world seemed to be all circles and shining gems. Then he blinked slowly and focus came back.

It was Daine again. She wasn't angry this time. Like the light, this time she looked softe. She was asleep – not the bleak sleep of exhaustion, but a gentle quietness that told the man she'd been lulled asleep by the peaceful candlelight. She had been sitting beside the bed, her legs tucked neatly under her. One hand pillowed her head against the mattress, and the other was outstretched towards him. Her fingers held a compress rag, now bone dry. It must have slipped from his forehead when she drifted into sleep.

It was odd, Numair thought, that she would pour her whole heart into caring for a dumb animal without a single thought for her own comfort. He put his unconscious self firmly into that same group, because he knew that to Daine there was little difference between nursing a litter of kittens or soothing a man's drunken headache. As soon as she woke up she would be prickly again, but when no-one was watching her the girl put all of her comments and resentments to one side with ease.

He sat up carefully, trying not to disturb her, and looked out of the window. The moon was still high; it was very late, not very early. He slid off the bed with a stifled groan and rubbed his eyes, knowing that now he was awake and sober he wouldn't fall back asleep. Whatever Daine suspected he had gotten drunk for a reason, and now it was all coming back to him.

Varice.

Varice was here. All curves and smiles and the smell of crisped sugar. Varice, with her bouncing ringlets and glasslike laughter. He had spent half the day watching her lodgings from the hidden safety of the smith's yard. He had hoped that she was there because he needed her for his plan. Even so, he'd flinched and nearly cried out in shock when he actually caught a glimpse of her whirling blue satin skirts whisking along the balcony.

Numair stared out of the window at the night sky and realised his hands were biting into the splintered wood. A chip had embedded itself into his palm and he sucked at the calloused skin without thinking. These were the hands of a worker. Varice was used to being held by the hands of a gentleman. Soft, white and fleshy hands that were good for touching nothing but soft, white and pliant flesh.

He shivered and told himself it was just the cold. It was cold. He pulled the shutter gently to and then looked around. Daine was still fast asleep. Daine, who was all brown sunburned skin and sharp edges. He couldn't have found someone more unlike Varice if he'd searched for them.

Still, Daine was changing. Now that his mind was less drugged by alcohol he could look at her properly. The hat was gone – thank goodness – but she was still dressed very strangely. Her dress was made of a soft reddish fabric, and although it was dusty and crumpled the colour suited her. It pooled messily around her legs but was neatly tucked in around her waist. By some miracle (or by pure stubbornness) whoever had dressed her had convinced her to wear a corset. The darted fabric had warped her muscled body into a feminine silhouette.

On anyone other than Daine, he thought snidely, the transformation would have been almost pretty.

To his eyes it made her look sly, devious, as if she were laughing at everyone who was actually fooled into thinking she was a genteel lady. His mental picture laughed, and with a chill he realised that it wasn't Daine's voice that mocked him. Of course. He still saw dainty waistlines and sumptuous fabrics as Varice's domain. A woman who dressed like that – who looked like that – was not to be trusted. Nothing could be more sinister than a pretty face.

 _This is Daine, not Varice._ He scolded himself. _If she was being cruel she wouldn't bother being subtle about it._

He picked her up carefully and lifted her onto the bed, then tucked the blankets around her. They were still warm from his body heat, and she sighed and cuddled into the spot where he'd lain.

 _Why am I comparing her to Varice?_ He thought. _She's just a child._

Her eyes opened hazily, and his thought was chased away. Her eyes were not a child's. He'd seen them broken, barbed and bright with tears. In the candlelight she looked at him in a sleepy confusion that held a different kind of awareness. Numair froze. Even half-asleep, with her defences down there was something velvety in Daine's eyes.

The light flickered for a moment, and he tore his gaze away. _No. No, a child would never have those eyes._

"Numair?" She asked in the drowning voice of a sleepwalker.

"Ssh," he whispered, and stroked her hair with his uncut hand. She looked even more confused by the gesture, but her heavy eyes flickered shut in a few seconds and her breathing deepened again.

"Shit." Numair whispered, and this time when he returned to the window he treated the moon to a glare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2: 'Spun Sugar' is now being posted!


End file.
